Just read the 21 pages of what I wrote this past year. A majority of them connects me to my younger self. The professional stuff does not resonate.
In the blue notebook, I unearth forgotten words from seven months ago. It didn’t make sense then, and it still doesn’t. At least it isn’t as rubbish as I once thought it was.
The blue dancer flickers to steady itself as the orange flame tries to escape the black ink. Why are you trying so hard to part ways? You can’t survive without the wick dipped in wax, you wicked flame!
The moon is cradling the ball tonight, and I wonder what you are up to. I just want to see you momentarily. For a kiss and a hug. To feel you next to my skin, but only briefly before it consumes me and extinguishes time. Time, time, time, time. The giver of life. The father of ions, sorrows, beginnings and all ends.
My freedom is not the same as yours.