The cute suits walk by, en route from all departures that would come here to commute or stay put, potentially absolute with tidy backpacks and euro styling attributes. Footwear mute,
freshly showered summer fruit on the go, good to go, neutral but not taking root. I dispute that I never wanted suits in my life, but I see warm safe bodies
beneath, bodies that can articulate, unmute, love in the shortest route. I could want that, irresolute,
in the same way that I wanted to have the chocolate and waffles and frites, but I’m pussyfooting around my unsuitable yearning for summer fruit, bruised and misshapen. I have no mind to wear a skirt suit.
Life likely turns out the same whether you picked the fresh fruit or scoop up the bruised and fallen. The fresh will also fall and the bruised can taste sweet and ready.