Dear Pine cone,
Do you miss being counted in?
We spend our lives fizzling away
Dissolving somewhere beneath a cloudy sky.
Everything happens to someone else.
Don’t you miss days where we bloomed and
Where there were no thorns to clip
And love felt centimeters close?
Don’t you miss those jaw-dropping days
Instead of this pathetic crawl from the shade to the light?
Dear lovely, mouth watering spectacle,
Don’t you hate being counted out?
Most days I don’t, although I admit
Those days are getting shorter.
Can you help me plaster up the sky again?
It fell down.
Two nobodies are better than nobody.