shall i write for you?
for me? shall you write? no, silly goose, write for the words. they speak to us all.
a glance down. a creased brow. an inhale, mostly through her right nostril but the air still taste the same in her lungs.
the sky looks painted. who make it appear like that, all blue and races of white?
this month past in moments of laughter mixed with sips of stress and loneliness. i used to be able to sleep at night but now i can’t.
i’ve opened doors to the future and yet i can’t yet cross the threshold and somehow i have balanced in limbo for this long so i know that i can make it the rest of the way.
yes, somehow this month has been limbo but it can’t have been because i remember every breath in through the narrow passages of my nose. where do the answers lie? why can’t i see them?
she breaks her foot free of the black shoes that carry her only because they carried someone else’s story first.
the air is cool. it twists and turn and runs away.
her heart nods with the strums of the guitar echoing in her ears.
her lips fold together, a crease of an envelope.
these words, did they speak to you?
no, they belong to you alone.