Dipped in honey on a Saturday. It lifts the color of me up, up, up. I will be sunny, by the end. I will be bright by dead of day.
Talk about how dad wants to bea mailman, for the simple good of letters in boxes.
Talk about all the drugs that we’re on and the ones we should be on again.
Talk about some people who left back then, over coffee and 2000‘s T.V.
They hover faraway, like a memory you only have because it’s been said you should have it.
We can’t imagine not knowing us, like they do.
Maybe it will be morning all day, and their hours, too, will drip sticky-slow, like microwaved breakfast syrup all over them, far too sweet a sentiment, and they, too, will talk about us.