We

The self-absorbed sea air
Grinds its hands across my face.
With eyes closed, this is either
Rio or Los Angeles and the bird song
Shares no secrets.
The view is always the same:
A few chirps, the highway, a foggy
Sunrise, the soft snores of
Someone, somewhere. The wind
Carries the scent of fried breakfasts,
Bakeries, the full-bodied reminder that
People are people and despite our
Inclinations to remember the worst
Of ourselves, we forget the worst
In others. I have traveled with
My insecurities. We are no closer.
The morning comes, I
Hold my tongue for the birds.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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