Landfill

(Rainy Sunday, 36th floor, see both rivers in the periphery and marvel again at the cityscape around you, vintage train cars to Radio City and the bar wrapped in holiday lights, but how at the end of the day none of it matters compared to the soft, sweet rainbow of poetry that sits again on your desk, that sits again in your bony fingers, that curls and stretches and yawns its unused muscles back into existence, you look at their winding, singing letters and think you must be the luckiest girl in the world to have them fall off
your 
lips)