I’ve deleted countless lines
in favor of something better
possibly just around the next thought.
I give up in favor of the mundane,
the silence of Starbuck’s where all I hear is reggae,
the hiss of steaming milk, and young Baristas
who say too much too loud too insecurely
(but I only hear them as if they’re not really there,
just like the moving wallpaper of cars driving past).
Drop shoulders every other breath,
and each time I relax into the leather sofa,
tears prick the back of my eyes,
in recognition of a life so rich I could melt (in love).
I am resting between symphonies.

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