The lonely breakfast table starts the day,
an adjustment is made to understand
why the other chair is empty. The morning
beautiful and still to be, should woo me. Yet
the appetite is not shared, lost somewhere in memory.
How lucky the horizon is blue and needs
no handwriting on its emptiness. I am
written on thoroughly, a lost novel
found again. I remember the predictable plot too late,
realize the silly, sad urgency of moss.
YOU ARE READING
For All The Young People,, Poetry
PoetryA book strictly dedicated to poems. Poems by myself, others (given credit), and you, if you'd like to submit. If you would like to submit a poem, leave a post/comment down below or PM me. *Rules for submitting*: -Preferred to have a title, not nece...
