I’ve been collecting
all of my tears
from the last few years,
gonna grow something beautiful.
Sitting in a storm,
the sound of flakes falling
crushes the sound of smiles not calling,
swear it’s been over a year.
Sitting in a parking lot.
5am, I can’t say what day it is.
I wonder if snowflakes worry.
Seem so much like me.
Falling? Or floating? They’ll just melt in the sand.
Do they have a favorite song?
Can they admit when they were wrong?
Do they see pushing forward as moving on?
Do they feel the need to hurry?
Do they remember everything?
The things they said, but didn’t mean?
Do they worry?
Always coming down. Hanging. Coming down.
Flying or falling or floating.
Sleeping, keeping warm.
The shade from the sunshine caving
crunches white likeness while footprints pave things,
missed it for over a year.
I’ve been collecting
all of my tears
from the last few years,
gonna grow something beautiful.
this is your life chuck johnson 