An empty flowerpot waits along an undusted windowsill. Its oldness blends the reds, browns and grays. While a mosquito meanders around, like a too proud drunken noble, I fall apart.
Where have the vivid gone? How have I left? How have I been so sure? Can I find it in your eyes? You’re gazing, soft and intense.
I have spliced a thin and potent section of my life. Is life always thin and potent? Excuse me while I fill my hole. Nothing else seems to work.
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