This Store Does Not Have a Name



we got to thinking,


what if people 

weren’t people? 

he was:

that small record store,

the one you’d see on the corner

filled with music and books and beauty

and things you might not ever expect

(but undoubtedly love)

and she was:

the sterilized store,

too clean to touch,

too much to disturb,

the one that was 

specificity on a silver platter

and you went cold

every time you walked in

and he became: 

cold hard knowledge

and cold hard facts,

not knowing 

how to look up from his desk

and she turned into:

the hideaway you always wanted,

an escape,

filled with curtains and colour,

light and laughter,

the place that turned dark

at night 

and once he and she joined hands: 

they became that empire,

the one everyone dreams of,

is it perfection in a bottle?

were they the recipe of 


no more darkness,

only light?

something to please everyone,

they became that conglomerate 

so much so, 

they forgot 




even if this is just a question,

why do we need these labels,

at all? 

why do we need classification,



are people,

and everything with meaning,

doesn’t need 

a reason.


and then you think,


that’s preposterous! 

people aren’t stores,

they are people

and emotion

and layers

and strings,

because no one has that right

to own someone,

to buy someone,

to have someone

(but that is all

i see)



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