I'm writing in half light,
candles burning low.
I've written word after word over
these last days but none of them seemed right.
Taking a pencil and scratching them out
was mildly satisfying.
Dreaming of sitting on my dusty old suitcase
in a half filled train station.
Watching people come and go.
Playing a love song in my heart,
torn ticket,
in my hand.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Pretty misty stars