The fog of my eye hides truth.
I peer through the haze,
I think I see a corner booth,
It’s full of friends from past days.
I rub my eyes and the image changes.
The lighting of this booth is dim,
Ill-lit to hide the scars on our faces.
As one mutters, “who invited him?”
My ears deceive me in this moment.
Am I wanted, or not? I cannot tell.
My feet are stuck in the cold cement
The sudden shock rises in a drastic shrill.
The exit serves as a sweeping draft
That cools me from the rising heat.
Is it just me that feels the heat blast?
Or are we all just faking, stuck in defeat?
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!