The sun comes up on the city
This morning,
Just like all the others.
No one is proud of me, yet. The best version of myself is waiting for me in the near future.
In the reflection of the cotton candy rays that bounce off the tiredness in my eyes, and hit the windows of the tallest buildings you'll ever see, lies every other morning that began just like this.
You still can't see me.
He puts his hands on me. Inside, it's everything these mornings have ever felt like. He turns another page, and somehow
these dry, old pages have turned to silk. I live in the small space of time where each time you've laughed, smiled, looked at me with those melted chocolate eyes, is one, reoccurring, day.
Each time we part, I realize more how rare goodbye is. Will I see you again? Is always on your mind; instead, you keep on walking. Perhaps this is what I've chosen.
Maybe
This what you want.
