I hear clouds striking grey above… with lists of unfolding stories.
Tired lots of belongings, collecting simple little things off your
Rear view mirror showcasing your dense forehead… arranging the
complex arthematics of chance… smearing away things we love.
The yellow lamp post, same old walkways… makes remember more
everyday those silly indexes of coversations… ending everytime on
your last smile.
The mirage under the small bridge shines through your box shaped
heads… underlaying new details… newer stories.
You see my reflections every single day… grabbing these pockets of
air… displaying my failing sight… resting over your forehead.
Things are simple yet obscured.
We are here but lost.
Where are the things we recognized.