of things that belong to other people,
strictly the business of those that aren’t me.
Like that fairy-tale family. Things which
hung like carrots before my worn and
wishful eyes, mirroring all the hopes
i kept inside. Breakfast together.
The smells, the smiles.
I would run for miles
on bleeding burgundy feet
skin singed in the heat and blackened
with oozing asphalt, to catch up with the
future that sped past, winking as it flew,
‘I’m not for you.’