Maybe travelling has turned you into a storyteller, looking for the next smile on a strangers face. Red lipstick will remind you of her, but she never wore red. Maybe you have found yourself after all… amidst scents and sights that fascinate and abhor you all at once. Also a place she would never go to. Maybe the story was fractured, so you could find bits of yourself in these crevices.
a collection of rubber duckies for some plastic smiles
‘i love you more than wordpress’
no one forced you to leave
you taste every ragged sip of emptiness
the echoing walls
and the sound of only your own footsteps.
there’s warmth missing from the flat unrumpled sheets next to you
there’s a million small notes that are missing
breakfast and love don’t make themselves
if you give them afew days… they always come up with a story…
If there’s a book you really want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it. – Toni Morrison
The teabag sits messily on a spoon…
smiling in bittersweet memory of how much everyone i know hates this.
Slices of life seem to have an extra serving of lemon to go down uncreamed,
i’ll hold the teabag