Little Moments

Here, I am supposed to summarize. To foreshadow. To prelude.

It is difficult to introduce something resting carefully between memories and stories and fragments of poetry. I feel as though I have been asked to show a stranger my soul in fifteen words:

Hello, you are currently reading:
Coffee stained dreams.
Unwritten letters.
A heart with dog-eared corners.

This is not a diary but a collection of colors and thoughts and denim pockets spilling with deep possibility. I know it must be a confusing way to meet, but my thoughts are suddenly scattered and I've forgotten how to be interesting.

I have no intended direction, no red ribbon to tie together every loose fragment of thought. The following will be a mosaic of stained glass-a thousand metaphors and reflections, sky-blue adjectives and handwritten notes to the stars.

These are the soft musings I stir into a cloudy latte.
These are reasons, the objects lacking reason, and too many variations of 'Why?'
These are the little moments- a metaphorical biography.