Sunday, September 16, 2007
familiar strangers.
To do the things without any of the depth before, it feels contrived and there is a heaviness within. I will rather not. If heaviness were to sing a pavane, its refrain will solemnly echo in the empty chamber of rainbow drapes, tenderly brushing against locked windows, with each gentle breeze of a memory. But all is still, there is nary a sigh or whisper or the headlong rush of air, wings no longer flutter, the night no longer brilliant, and all that is left are the stolen glances, or the deliberate transparent gazes, that which speak a thousand words (or so I misconstrue), but nothing is ever said or spoken, and I too, remain silent.
she procrastinated @ 02:21 |
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