i know.

1830

i was supposed to be there

i never made it

again

and again

and again
and

again

i know
saying this won't help but


sorry.

Curtains of Bel-air

What were the songs we used to sing
the ones we sang during those long nights that never really seemed to end but eventually did anyway.

What were the words I used to write,
the ones I wrote at the back of all your books just so you'd have something to read when you got home, bored.

Where did I put the stack of graphite potrait sketches,
the ones that never looked like who they were meant to be.

By now
looking out,

you'd probably have realised that

After a while


The questions come back,

haunting.
never changing.

along with the Lack of answers.