Petrichor reminds me of a memory half composed,
half written like an amalgamation of lives never lived
the diary of a teenage girl
dreaming her way out
There’s a flutter in my chest and I am split into two
a me who sits on a train and watches the rain
pouring down onto the platform steps
and me here, in the office
feeling the pain of a silent conversation
between the desks and the chairs
the overhead lights that flicker
with no one here
Am I imagining that I was there?
Do I group together things to make thoughts
that never happened
My heart drops. A sudden sense of impending doom.
I am lackluster today
caught up in distractions.