A Poem by Andrea Jenkins
A monotony of asphalt seems like threat, as I turn up the radio,
until I drown out the sound of internal voices,
and with every increase in decibel, you are forced farther into
the back of my head, like a quick blow to the skull.
All the memories of what you look like become
clouded with nicotine fraught smoke, as I become able
to exhale, my lungs fluctuating with intensity, and realize
what is happening. Realizations turn to pressure in my chest
and stinging in the corner of my eyes; I can’t erase you.
Until I sit across from your apparition, with nothing
to say, and a monotony of asphalt that seems like a threat,
because I come to understand, and am yearning to
admit that we are still learning; a pile of ash falls on my lap.
