The worst is over, now.
The Mourning Dove consoles me with the promise of salvation.
The specks of grass are soaking in the last few raindrops of spring
And the meek mosquitoes can’t wait to emerge from their hibernation.
The next is soon now.
But when the early bird gets the worm, I am left with nothing.
As a child, I’d spit out watermelon seeds. I made belief my skin would ripen, my knees would cave in and my stomach would broaden thrice its size. I’ve always been a little girl pleading for no harm with melon juice steaming from my mouth.
When I got bored during primary school, I liked to sit back and revise words. It was as if I’d get rewarded with ecstatic loving arms on the off chance I perfectly strung them together in iambic pentameter. Did this grinding have much use outside, in the real world?
I couldn't do anything today but make a cup of tea. All I wanted. And if I wanted more I couldn’t do it anyways. But there’s something loving in a mug handle: Let’s hold hands so you don't burn yourself. And if my
