Do they know they’ll only survive 

to be shiny, broken, beautiful

shards of ACDC ground into 

the soles of my feet 

after we lock eyes 

for the fifth time? 

Sometimes it only takes one 

but those poems are exhausting 

and those people are paper. 

Is there free will in one’s line of sight? 

Am I a forgotten breath or a brick wall?

You could say I don’t know you 

but the way you’re sitting 

I’d say I know too much. 

I want to know more.