On Sunday mornings
I wish I could still smell the bacon cooking.
Through twisted branches;
my mother singing a melancholy tune.

I wish my lips weren't swollen from this
poisonous tension.
These poisonous lies.
Lies underneath the surface.
Words not worth mentioning.

Sometimes I wish the world was greater.
That it spun ten times slower
and blinking showered life with
mistaken values.

I don't know why I wish for sometimes.
Why I count the blemishes on cracked hands.
But maybe "sometimes" will create caves.
Caves of smoke in which I can smile without combusting.

Maybe just maybe

I'll smile again.