The tulips look like a tipsy choir, open-mouthed and unsteady.
He practices a dramatic swivel in his parents' office chair - revealing himself to the room with menace and flair. Like a responsible adult, I suggest that he pretend to hold a whiskey glass, maybe a cigar.
She treats my emotions as an inconvenience. Like, why can't I just not have them? Consider how much simpler life would be.
The shivers of a robin in a bird bath.
Lemony willow leaves stain the pond. A child showers the ducks with gold and brown crusts.
We part ways, for good I think, and all I am at this point is tired.
"I don't know what I'm doing, but I'll survive by pretending I do," is their way of working, and I don't know if I want to roll my eyes at them or give them a hug.