It is rude to stare, they said.
But the way the boy in the grey t-shirt folded the edges of his notebook exactly three times in perfect symmetry held your attention.
It is rude to interrupt, they said.
But the girl with the tear shaped eyes was being too self-deprecating to not be stopped in her tracks.
It is rude to point, they said.
But you simply had to point at the gentleman in the black gloves to keep him from stealing the petite girl's purse.
It is rude to not respond, they said.
And you didn't have an answer for that.
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This one is dedicated to Zoe ( imperialists- ) because she is way more awesome than she thinks and a even better reader.
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YOU ARE READING
Prismatic Memories
Poetry"i. they tell me they cannot comprehend art. where art is, whispers reside. ii. i tell them that the only art i need are the words that bleed onto paper. iii. they tell me it doesn't work that way. there are compromises for art. sports. scie...
