Bubbles of flavour and colour,
Bubbles which don’t belong.
Bubbles which strut around without a purpose,
Bubbles which float away into nothingness.
Mirth frolicking around,
lapping up the honey of the ever toiling bees.
I am asked to follow it around,
Or atleast hope for it to come around.
What if I know It’s not coming,
And I’m okay with it?
Can you be okay with me being okay about it?
I am neither the essence of the coffee
Nor the lightness of the froth,
I am the in between.
Where hope lies stagnant,
Where life tastes vacant,
And existence rhymes with mythical.
deliriouswithacherryontop 