mmae_ee

sunday nights are my own.

old music in the corners of my mind

pen scratches on paper, ten thousand poems

two hundred and seventy-two

little golden lights, 4 walls

that mirror my soul.

the doors

are left open

for him

to walk through

and brightly lit

with all

he will ever need

when beside him

there is a girl

stumbling through

a dark hall

unable to find her way

I had woken up in the middle of the night, craving cinnamon rolls. So, there I was, at 3 in the morning, dragging myself to the grocery store, still dressed in my fuzzy dinosaur pajamas.