Posted in Verses

Empty

I fill my days with colors

Pretty things

Sweet souvenirs

The aroma of memories

Lived and unborn;

The dusty palette of fading acrylic

And the sepia tones of yesteryear songs

Cravings of chocolate, solitude

And fluttering heartbeats

Highs of crowded laughter,

Swirling love

And all and anything else

Except me.

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Author:

A wayward thinker hiding behind the facade of necessary courtesies

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