I’d meet you at The Waffle House
but it’s not like we’d order anything. It would exist in a liminal space. The food is there, just in the past. In the cloud above our head.
In our mind. In your teeth.
My mouth opens. Words don’t spill out. Syrup spills out.
I’m losing it. I lost you. The person I madly loved. The Waffle House, bro. Can we just go already?
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