I live in the city center, 26th Ave.
My place’s on the third floor,
the key’s under the cactus.
The red pills are in my drawer,
white ones are on the book shelf,
and the toothbrush is there,
next to the lotions,
still recognizable, but sometimes
the mirror distorts my face.
Note this down.
I’m twenty six years old,
I live in a spartan city,
where the crisp half moon outshines
the white LED light strips that
hang in small kiosks.
Gardening freezes my anxiety,
singing sets it on fire,
writing makes it a close friend,
and kissing cold lips is my thing.
