We take notes between days, to write stories about months, so we may feel
better about our years.
Puddles of night hang below these eyes, loose skin cushions these fingers where this pen used to leave a mark.
Time, as though a leaf blowing away, a blanket left in yesterday.
They don’t mind when they close their eyes, the restlessness has left making way for the rattle of new air passing through old lungs.
We fear the end because we don’t know what it looks like and we stopped reading the book a long time ago.
The sunset as though a reminder of our youth, passionately kissing the horizon, seeking the adventures that rest on the bend of the Earth.
The dawn a mirror of regret for the nights before, reflecting promise for the days that lay ahead.
That magic, that pot of gold hides in the seconds, between the moments we get caught up in. A look of love between two harsh words, the last breath of life in a dying verse.
Without reason or entry.
Young with lines of age, aged with mannerisms of the young.
Puddles of night hang below these eyes, loose skin cushions these fingers where this pen used to leave a mark.
Time, as though a leaf blowing away, a blanket left in yesterday.
They don’t mind when they close their eyes, the restlessness has left making way for the rattle of new air passing through old lungs.
We fear the end because we don’t know what it looks like and we stopped reading the book a long time ago.
The sunset as though a reminder of our youth, passionately kissing the horizon, seeking the adventures that rest on the bend of the Earth.
The dawn a mirror of regret for the nights before, reflecting promise for the days that lay ahead.
That magic, that pot of gold hides in the seconds, between the moments we get caught up in. A look of love between two harsh words, the last breath of life in a dying verse.
Without reason or entry.
Young with lines of age, aged with mannerisms of the young.
