Open windows lets the air out, you're clocking in and out at record pace but the dust on the frames says I've always been here. Like this, at least.
Half written post-it notes claiming I belong somewhere, unfortunately the adhesive means it can't be recycled.
Four-leaf clovers get cut the fastest, bodies encased or weighed down to maintain the facade of luck, all this to say that maybe the odds are against me, but the evens keep their distance. It's not so even between us anyway.
You don't know what I'm looking for but think blindness is the answer.
Sometimes home is a person, sometimes it should be being alone.
I value what most people throw away, I hoard details and perceptions. I hoard benefit of the doubt, but doubt it'll give more of an advantage than it'll take.
We're all built for communication but we never will perfect it.