In the printed hands of the past are our faces inked with; a stain that time cannot erase. Without a window, we see into ourselves through the journey of once-was people we were, once-was lives we led. Now, just rubbed corners of a fading book, cannot clearly read the letters that once so fresh with ink were legibly meaningful--; and that’s what it has become to them--;
Ambiguous short-films of the past, meaningless in its lack of clarity.
Silentsilentsilent.
Silent are the memories, loud heartbeats in our reverie.
time is just a mirror; reflecting who we once were.
don'ttouchdon'ttouch.
time is just a book; fading stories as years go by...what ink spilled, what tablecloth stained.
yourwordsyourwordsyourwords.
heartbeat of a memory; ink spilled upon my reverie.
♥
