pin deeper than the puddle.

upon reaching this level of acceptance with the unknown, i laugh with the rush of the wind in the dying leaves

my story is a simple one, for i care not to tell

numbers mean nothing in the morning, swirling around 7, written on her all-knowing finger

that bike lying in the grass, quintessential symbol of our affluence

i ask myself why i cannot be like the others, as i wait for a pin to fall and shatter my calm reflection

and all these strings wander and twist, knot, loosen, fray, and fall into a heap as i laugh at the mess and attach it to my stringy hair

pearls in my ears, smile on my face, nothing in my eyes, and hands around love, i sit

waiting

for the pin to drop, the leaves to die, the curls to twist, the strings to unravel

i could never make bracelets, maybe that is why i hate camp

.