Recycled Art
Talking to you tastes like old cigarette butts buried in your drawers- dancing with lighters in an array of unorganized things.
It smells like gasoline and cigarillos, corrupted with sounds of sirens and planes that soar in rings of air through the sky. Like cringing when I hear the sound of nails scratching fabric.
It feels like my chest has pulled through a parking garage and I'm afraid you'll crush me.
Tightness.
Talking to you looks like a picture I think I've seen for the first time,
But I'm reminded of amnesia in the bliss of thought and mixtures of memories- How they walk a thin line between insanity and serenity.
I've been visiting the same gallery for years, only giving my admiration to the masterpieces inside. I have loved and let go.
I left that display with nothing but dried painted palettes, damp paint brushes, and clean palms.