oven-fresh

you can smell it in the air.

(smell what/ don't play dumb. smell IT.)
it's that burnt-rubber reek
of sadness beyond belief --
for death and a fire truck
(and not a notice of the age-old rule
"look twice before you cross the street")
just brewed an oven-fresh carcass of cry-your-eyes-out grief.

&&(so this is what it's like to take

a breath of reality.)

you try not to care.
but it's still (f)ire-tr(ucking) there.

--

a/n: my classmate died. R.I.P. Michael. we miss you.