Palm trees age
and their fronds
droop and sigh
and look like
the beards of obstinate old men
who've lived a little too long.
My postcard to you was bullshit.
I stopped missing you
when you became silent.
Now I just waste away with
every inch of the highway
going south, south, south.
It's funny how the distance
breaks and completes me at the same time
I might sell my life and come back
so I can become a little less real
with each passing year
and slowly start to age
like the dead leaves on the palm trees
forgetting how to stay ever green
in the face of biting winds. |
Submission Name: untitled
