hunched over the sword-worthy typer
with a perpetual broken heart,
blood would only make a mess
without providing further proof of existence.
the cars on the wet concrete,
cruising behind me, behind the glass of the window,
on their way to work, school, church,
splashing tires in perfect petrichor,
adding a woosh to thoughts.
just because I'm frowning
doesn't mean that I am sad,
and Chekov said “Every happy man should have
someone with a little hammer at his door to knock
and remind him that there are unhappy people."
and remind him that there are unhappy people."