You shave the face of yesterday
Your city eyelids stop and start
Your boss lives inside your head
Your shower head streams live chills
Months of red
You still want a flame from high school
Your subway seat holds big raindrops
Your price tag reads $2.99
Your socks have toe holes in them
Months of red
Your colleagues don't trust you once
Your work outfit is just some clothes
Your sweat glands don't work indoors
Your heart beats slower than dub
Months of red
You are the king of dilettantes
You eat the bread of stale and dry
You play a silent wood oboe
You sink deeper than you know
Months of red
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