Saturday, December 10, 2016

Your Words

Yellow, gray, and white. The colours of my stationary. I always return to the desk. And somehow, this is anything but settled. I understand how I write. The life on seen pages laying more still than letters of dead. No matter the monolith, the art of my palms, the back of my hands never go away. I understand it all, clearer than what I see. But your words, though I read them every day, I know not how they came. How is it that you wrote on my heart?


  1. They came because you paid for them and I sent the books to you.


    Sorry. Didn't mean to deflate what you were blowing up here.

    1. Ha! Well played, well played, indeed. 😅 Planning to send an update on where I'm at in the book in not too long.