Present.

Just something I wrote a number of weeks ago and managed to misplace.

 

Present.

The rain is smacking the land beneath my window

and I listen intently for a sound I’ve never heard before.

I wonder if I was ever here –

ever present.

When plants grow, they grow up to reach the light.

How do they know?

And where is my light?

My heart fills with every shade of red

besides the one I like.

We’re disconnected.

I often wonder if I’ll ever find a frame

(of mind)

to hold a picture of me plus one.

It’s strange how we blame the smokers for tarnishing their bodies with chemicals.

We each have our vices.

Hold your fingers.

 

M.

 

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