poeming after a while

my words are cheap,
they come easy,
a natural flow,

Bus Rides

All the places that we don’t halt at,
doesn’t seem to be a part of our story.

don’t you let the tears dry out in your eyes,
let them roll to your cheeks,

the only two residents of the house,
a mother and a daughter

a distinct odor,
a peculiar paint,

a reflection in the mirror
that stares