by J.R. Solonche

Twelve still means.


But not what it used to.

White paper

is better for the sun than brown paper.

You didn’t count.

It felt like the right number, though.

You didn’t count.

But then you always forget yourself.

No number is any luckier

than any other.

Nor unluckier.

No such luck, they whisper.

Behind your back.

When they didn’t show up,

you made do.

You counted on yourself.

Jackie Rhoadesshapeimage_7_link_0