Hand Towel

on the tiled floor we lie

Discarded

saturated with tears to the point of tearing

We like to imagine ourselves as a rose, trampled on the ground

We do not like the floor.

so cold, despite attempting a welcome

We much prefer the counter

where we belong.

where we can watch them be happy

Pulsations of joy through us

Our threads become veins

Propelling us through the heavy pages of time

a moment, a lifetime

and so we wait

watch twelve too many off white capsules vanish

Heart broken in synchronized passing

longing for the days before

of Clouding Mist

of Cold Air Shocks

Life enjoyed as she is meant to be

instead of this cubicle monotony

as we stare up at the ceiling