Two pieces of pottery lay vacant.

I’ve left them to dry too long,

perhaps on purpose.


With each passing day collecting dust.

Sometimes they call me,

beg me to retrieve what once was mine.


But with each passing day I still don’t trust myself to move on,
too scared to pick it up and hold it my hands for fear that I may just collapse back into your arms.

Smoke fills my lungs as I walk down this lonely path,
where I was going… no one knows,

“Oh fur so white, so bright, so bright,”
“What?”
I would simply say and walk away into the unknowingness left of yesterday.

“Oh eyes so light, so white, so white,”
“What?”

I scrambled to catch my breath, not pausing to see what was left.
But down this uncharted path, unbeknown to the lost sheep,
was the wrath of the eyes lurking throughout wilderness,
longing to covet her wool all to themselves….

Waiting for one misstep into the cool morning light to trample upon the lost sheep at last.

I love being 22.
I found myself between the deepest of shadows and the brightest of days.
The smell of jasmine as I float through you like a breeze,
Entranced by my elusive and ever waiting presence.
I love being 22.
The taste of salt between my teeth, the feeling of tears stinging my face,
22 to be exact.