JOE PYNE


I’m not sure if I remember what feelings are which, Or which feelings are what. Pretending to be numb for so long can confuse the senses like trying to place yourself the moment you wake from a decade-long coma.

Is this love? Lust? Loneliness?

Flatulence? (Though that joke’s been used before).  I highly doubt any single word can describe the enormity of a feeling:


Sitting on a roof,

3am, bright moon,

cloudy night sky,

warm breeze.


Blankly staring at the future

Pretzeled against your body

Nestled against your heart


A burr, stuck to the sock of your soul.




Joe Pyne is a writer living in California.


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