The floor tiles are cold. I can hear an owl, the twitter of birds and i can hear the evening sun ... whispering. I try to let myself sink down into the moment, noticing. Noticing layer upon layer of sound, of smell, of light, of hue.
half a promise
more than the half... sometimes
this festivity has a grip
grip on the un-shed tears
too many staring matches lost to the mirror ...
lost everything to the evanescence