The air is heavy.
Hoarse, and grating,
You flinch at my every breath.
But still you bear the wheezing.

Rancid, and yellow.
You’re waiting for the bitter aftertaste
You are the damsel’s saving grace,
While I will remain the one the shoe will never fit.

Pick me up and twirl me
Did you, will you, can you?
Dust settles on the dolls
The tea in their cups went cold
While we waited for you.

Flashes, a tree, a pink kitchen
Lights blinking, and I smile
The golden fruit, but I am
The rotten, brown spot
That sours, day by day.