The only warm hearth we can always return to is our childhood memories
At every opportunity to not know, I shamelessly choose to know.
The patient sheet of paper – never asking me to shut up.
If only she could love me and not the image of me I wanted her to once love.
On the pavement, my body feels and holds the rush of every vehicle and in that incessant throb, a deep calm and quietening…
Such a pitiful heart which mistakes attention for love
How different is day from night!? My life is not of my plot; my dreams are not of my design.