The words have been spilled like buckets on a good construction day, deconstructing the older self.
The empty paints, fading memories of what used to be, true.
White seems so appealing, so essential.
The gaps in between to observe what should have not been seen.
Should have, could have, must have, don’t have.
Anything to be stranded on.
It’s going to be washed away.
As grand as this chance.
To be seized.
We’re hoping for quiet days.
New opportunities.
Are mistakenly forming.
Reversed from wanting.
We just swipe fingers on dusty windows.
Writing deadlines to be lived.
Tomorrow they're gone so as our wishes.
To move on.
So we remain.
Quiet, like we promised.
And lean on the friendly side of the sofa.
Where the moonlight hits stronger than the screen.
We have been seeing and falling into an awakened sleep.
So many alarms for just one day.
Today.
“Yesterday, all my troubles seem so far away”
