I looked for something in the archives.
An old poetic note written in ancient days;
and old feeling attached to a certain song,
like a sunny day that danced around a melody
my soul never forgot.

Wasn’t a love poem.
I’d never waste a single thought in
that old same unreasonable doubt.

One day we kiss,
the other we set sail,
we regret, we return,
we won’t stand still.

Wasn’t a love note for sure.
I wouldn’t dare love you
or write down my feelings for you.
I don’t belong in a bedtime shelf.

But I look for you, every now and then.
The streets feel so empty
when you can’t find your place in the sun.

Void and endless mental shapeshifting changes
swift my mind and soul, but I wouldn’t waste a single thought:
always had too much time to ****,
but I would never let my soul dry out in the playground.

I look for nothing, can’t find what I can’t wish,
and if I dream, I really should not.