the dirty dishes in my thoughts.
wearing the same shoes each day of the week.
when I don’t chew my words.
banging two rocks together.
thinking more would be better.
drinking only half a cup.
allowing bare paper to congregate on my desk.
doors I only imagine open.
gloves I lost.
brittle morning air, no pen in hand.
lies. any lies.
coloring skies when I don’t look.
thinking distance matters.
fingertips when they’re misplaced.
swallowing my breath.
thinking it don’t matter much.
shoes too small.
two feet, confused.
the third I don’t speak about.
standing at the bottom of a thought,
speechless beneath the waterfall.
I am afraid I am all the things I think
I am. I think.