I remember the cracks in the sidewalk,
that the grass in between them must have felt
just trying to push through.
The breeze that floated
like a feather,
soft, warm, maternal.
The battered screen door
escape hatch opening and closing,
the inhale and exhale,
of a broken body.
I drift through,
absorbing it all as it plays like the opening sequence
to a movie wherein anger erupts,
the aftermath like molten lava,
crusting over and drying out
The clouds always looked
a connection of sensory between
sight and smell.
Though I could wash it
out of my clothes, I couldn’t remove
the smoke from my core.
It stayed inside of me,
holding on, while nobody else would.
The grass would push through, though,
the screen door now stays shut.
The clouds that I chased after,
no longer seem necessary,
and the smoke fades, with each inhale
of fresh air.