He’s peppermint tea you
steeped for too long and rips in your favorite jeans. He’s the butterscotch
candy that just appears in the purses of little old ladies. He’s drive-thru
diners and licking greasy fingers. He’s a melody stuck in your head but you
never know the words. He’s the word on the tip of your tongue and the things
you say without thinking. He’s anxiety and caution and angst. He’s the slightly
pulpy last sip of lemonade when it’s a scorching hundred degrees. He’s the
pennies in your pockets in exchange for a thought and the sprint to beat the
parking meter. He’s cold coffee and sleepy conversations and the umbrella that
breaks in the rain. He’s puddles and wet socks and the thump of your tennis
shoes in the dryer. He’s leftover Easter candy, chalky and stale, and the
stomachache you can’t seem to regret.
He’s too much and never enough.
He’s killing you softly and you
don’t even care.