Flat feet as flat as slippers sitting not standing, following the floor. Edging around the purple velvet of soft shoes for soft people. Voices as quiet as doves.
If lavender had feelings it would feel like my shoes. Weak in the sole and strong in the body. Its issues are no more complicated than the gray sound of white noise. Echoing in between ears, it’s hushed like the ocean. An ocean of static thoughts. I can barely feel their sharper points edging around their themes. Situations. Dire elations. Concepts and provocative cornered conversations. Instead thoughts are soft and round, fuzzy with a calm knowledge that this could continue forever.
Flat feet as flat as slippers, saving not sharing, their voices seep into the carpet. Slippers don’t pronounce the thoughts they think in color. Instead they are darters and martyrs to their uncomplicated shape.