In bars and on beaches, the few times we meet
They don’t bother to ask, it’s a one-way street.
It’s always their stories, no room for mine.
So I all I can muster is a casual, “I’m fine.”
It feels so strange then to call them my friends
When really we’re strangers on opposite ends.
With growth exponential, I must go my own way.
My wings are protruding so why should I stay?
Photo by Marx Ilagan from Pexels.
Xeno Hemlock 