Déc 16



You removed from your life this man who knew not what he had done. He tried to capture an ounce of wisdom with his bare hands and he had failed lamentably in front of your blue gazing eyes. He feels sorry for his own pain and yours. “It’s been a rough week” you said, and oh how I had wished he could have been by your side. He owes you books and bits of wisdom that you had picked from your own tree, then placed lovingly in his hair and between his fingers. After all he is a man not so simple who, day by day, becomes more remorseful over what he is offered by this life and yourself: a delightful past much too gone.


The tongue is so useless when you think it would be of no use if we ran into each other on the street. Words were tremendously meaningful when we first acknowledged each other. Once you forgot my name and turned your ears away from my sounds, I could not help but become a blank book whose last remaining bit of hope is enacted by blindly asking to be read one more time.

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