June 6

After days in the fridge pancakes tend to revert back
to their previous state as flour and oil and eggs,
though they still look delicious, keeping
their inviting, browned, slightly burnt gaze.
I guess we are all like this. Stick me in a dark,
cold place, below the burp of plastic
and ask me to wait. My component parts begin
to separate. When you again want my sustenance,
an opinion, a compliment, someone to go see
the latest movie with, I will make myself up
to look as if all I need is warming, some syrup
to be whole again. But inside I am dusty, cracked
and oily falling apart on your parched tongue and lips.
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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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