Crayons

It's funny how these cliche days
Bring sorrow memories
When rounded crayons
Take a waxy texture
And the light reaches
It's breathless fingers closer

Bitter cold pockets of air
As I trudge along the
Immaculate sidewalks
Staring longingly at what
I feel I can't have

We always long
To belong

It's strange how a breaking wave
Can change the most innate belief
How the whisper of an
Empty package
Has the innocent ability
To teach us what matters





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