Through a fogged up windshield and none of the humidity sourced from you.
The night I saw through you, seeing Someone in my mouth.
Last seen, wearing yellow under your nails, which I thought was a good sign.
I asked, "Where are you going?" Muffled, over Someone’s shoulder.
"See you." You shrugged.
You always slouched too much.
Last seen, the night you harvested your own mortality. And used it as paint.
by Kerri Farrell Foley of Houston
