Under a nostalgic moon, I found myself reminiscing days of present past. A time not too distant, I grasped at faint memories of love, friends, foes and food. The latter was brought on by constant hunger pangs pervading the night, screwing up my diet.
On friends and foes, I found no reason why these memories surfaced. Twisting a storm in a chipped teacup, I pondered why a world this large we seek nothing but a small chance to fall in love.
If love is not the sum of my every day, it’s what I add to every day, or I don’t know love. I’ve been telling myself a story, a page every other day, and weep for the beauty of the hope we show when we try.
To love again.