They rippled and looked rather menacing, their color a gradation from black to grey.
the edges are fuzzy and sharp all at once.
Is this life, they ask?
Is this real, is this what we are here for?
They whisper memories of a day long past,
They think, they dream, they wish, they hope.
They are parts of us and we parts of them.
They are the unspoken words tattooed on the inside of our lips.
They are the silent things we appreciate.
They are slow smiles hidden behind a curtain of blue.
They are lists and post it notes and lunch leftovers closed up with a ribbon of saran wrap.
They are small rooms hidden in the back of kitchens, tiny stories that I keep in my back pocket.
They are the silent things we appreciate.
They are slow smiles hidden behind a curtain of blue.
They are lists and post it notes and lunch leftovers closed up with a ribbon of saran wrap.
They are small rooms hidden in the back of kitchens, tiny stories that I keep in my back pocket.
For me they happen to cover every metaphor that I need them to, every silent musing.
No comments:
Post a Comment