A closed window book.
A pursed lip with stern condescension.
It’s Parisian smokey black & white mornings with cold damp war wounds and nearly silent rain.
It’s a most sad song that catches in your throat.
The unselfish death of a dreamed life somewhere far away in your own back yard.
This… sanity.
This question.
This naked form not quite 17 and still apologizing for being someone’s unrequited dreamscape.
A long walk still not taken.
A joke still untold.
An unchewed gum of a thing.
A masterpiece not started, and I just realized what I’m describing.
