Socks | poem
For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me . But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers — more than common ground. We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds. For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you if you get up for me.