Your lips move, forming the syllables ah-men.
They twitch with some kind of laughter,
but joy is not written on your face.
Perhaps out of habit, you frequent the building,
week after week, decade after decade,
eating away at the body.
Like mold.
Cold.
Colder than the East Coast at the height of winter,
despite the heat wave of a Californian summer.
Did your hearts never burn with fire?
Have you ever tasted the goodness of a melon bar?
Did you know beauty once?
