Benched

The bench spoke to me. 
I waited so long: 
the daily walks,
the nervous glances,
 - hoping. 
I made excuses, 
now thinking about it, 
to walk by. 
Deluding myself to believe.

No,

I do like walking.

I do like that bench.
 
Around and around
that gnarly,
blood-footed path.

And then
sat, 

“please leave“ it requested. 
An underwhelming introduction, 
but 
chills and flutters
still. 
I walk on.

Parasite Obsolete

A novelty, 
she turns each page
with as much emotion as she reads. 
Petals pressed, feathers caught, 
stories from the back of the book;
pages no one else sees.
A leak in performance
held by drying wrinkles. 
I stared at each word so long,
clinging for dear life
to everything she whispered,
the slow march of typeface
across skin. 
Dangling by fear and craving
off the sidewalk’s end.