I feel us losing traction, treasured little chain reactions gravel used to fatten up its crunch.
Fasten yourself in, love, because the bread and butter of dustbowls in February cannot carry the weight of spring in your step.
Wastelands of wretched mercury furnish themselves with flowers but not pollen to empower them.
So used to subzero debts, they refuse to relent their blossom and with bleeding hands, I’ve fought them to remain underground.
But self-respect is found, and drowning in dirt is an option no longer.