Sitting on a bench at 4:27PM,
burnt cheeks and glossy eyes.
The thought of you warrants
a pained laugh, a stifled exhale.
What was it like to want you near?
Reflections on the water almost
look like you, somehow like
the way you’d look at me.
Softened, deepend, delicate.
The passerbyer’s cigarette
smells like you, too.
I distract myself by counting
clovers instead of replaying
your words, hearty sentiments
that time turned empty.
They often echo in the quiet
air you left behind.
And now, in your silence,
I have to tell myself it all meant nothing.
Porcelain Prose 