my mind is an infinity with depths left undusted like
an old library of memories. each book has a specific name
of singular people who has come in contact with me.
some books are coated with dust and probably will
be left that way. my handwriting has gotten sloppier
over the past few years and i don't blame anyone for it.
these hands waiver terribly like the few seconds before
a storm. somehow, i imagine your library to be a pile
of books  strewn haphazardly all over the floor. some
spines are worn out but you still turn the pages. there's
a few books that have been set on fire and burn marks like
cigarettes pressed onto sidewalks. there is always a
few books left open, but i'm sure you forgot my name
and left me sitting on the floor for a while like a gardener
who let their roses wilt because they forgot about their
passion. passion does have a breaking point.

- kra