Milk and Bread

Stale bits of bread
Curling up with age
And disease
Little memories stealing
Substantial energies and slow speeches

Crossing the street
With eyes the yellow wideness
Of a cooing barn owl

As I carry this weight
That weary travelers can only
Imagine
A catalyst of slow, salty rain
Down smooth skin
Into willowy grass and milky, cupped hands

As I sit here, knowing.
Just one little, tiny thing.
Knowing that no one else
Will.
Ever.
Compare.

My memories, like stale bits of bread
Curling away
As my mind fills.
Will you ever know this sorrow?





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