Member-only story
Prose Poem
1 min readJan 8, 2019
a run-on sentence
Sliding under red lights, the smell of a passing train, knowing that there will never be another day like today, knowing that no two years are ever the same, the post-holiday hangover, the surreal grieving process of growing up, that contagion we pass on to our kids, I could blame the weather for everything until I’m blue in the face, and everyone around would simply nod in agreement instead of trying to resuscitate me.
