sometimes i take a
honey wheat twisted pretzel
and pretend it’s a cigarette
and i’m hanging out of the window,
wind buffeting my face,
so when the tears run down my face
i blame the chill.
adjusting my mascara, reapplying eyeliner,
till my eyes don’t look like my own,
and my laugh twinkles around the room.
sometimes i picture
what my hair will look like
streaked with grey, reminiscing.
Streaked with Grey
Write Then & There 