on a feeling that doesn't have a name

It was a place like cigarette breaks. Like drinking mimosa's on Sunday. We can climb into the folds of this metaphor and never find her name. Because just like the moon goes away, the sun goes away, we drink the water up, and the time goes away, she goes away too. It's like the melting wax of a candle. Like tying your shoelaces and they come untied. Meeting someone you think you have met, but haven't met, and maybe, if you believe in other lives, you know you love them too much now to have never loved them before.  It's a time like the early hours, the smell like dew. It is tasting your hatred. The hate tastes like burned espresso beans, only you have to keep chewing. It is a place like mud and sadness. Your shoes get dirty. We can eat the popcorn but it will get stuck in our teeth. Or we could get stuck, or we could be ok. It's all like maple syrup and uncertainty.