Floating.

My soul is gathering dust
Like an old bike being
stored in the garage.

But he looks at me and smiles,
always, even without much
to smile about.

I must be a bad luck charm.
An omen that just
can't be ignored.

It's a mad world,
and while we cling to the bad,
We watch the good float wayward.

Like soap bubbles from a stick,
plastic and string in the wind.
Like smoke on the breath of your teen years.