Forgive me, if I can't paint of summers any longer. I have receded, my colours have faded into each other till I could see life at a point, white, unassuming, like a star. Distant and transitory. I have tried to find light in stagnate poems, in lover's eyes, in exulted conversations with friends from distant cities. I could have been the hermit, but I like living too much. A little too much, even though it's not really meant for me. I keep wondereding at the spaces between words, at the irony of our fragmented narratives. At all the things left unsaid. You and I are strewn farther apart than I thought, embroidered into the intricacy of an universe which loses more of it's meaning every day. We grow up. We are fluid possibilities in the enigma of becoming. Summer is long gone.
Let me write to you, still.
YOU ARE READING
Arcadia
KöltészetSpilled thoughts, letters from no one, stories of another time, another place. - || H.R. : #50 in Poetry ||
