Walking through a park, the man slightly stumbles. I sit on a bench watching him walk towards my direction. The air is stall this morning and I think to myself, I wonder if it's going to rain later? It's a bit cold, but my steamy green tea latte keeps my hands warm. The man approaches me, smoking his cigarette, filling his lungs with cancer. He pauses a few feet away from me. Takes the last puff of his small cigar that contains over 600 ingredients, and smiles at me with his yellow decayed teeth. To think of what he just inhaled sickens me, he might as well just licked the ground, but I smiles back politely. I watch the wind lightly brush through the trees. Tickling it. The leaves move in a way, as if the tree is laughing. I smirk to myself, wondering what it would be like to be a tree. I wonder what kind I would be. So I sit there watching people, one of my favorite pastimes. People walk their dogs, jog past me, and some stroll through as if they have no exact destination. In the distance the children play, jumping around and making weird noises, somewhat reminding me of a bunch of little monkeys in a zoo at feeding time. The wind caresses my face. I sit. I am content.
"I woke up this morning with a funny taste in my head
Spackled some butter over my whole grain bread
Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue
Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young"
~Die Alone, Ingrid Michaelson
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