At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries, and eases the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self made prescription, wipe up the tears, and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
Dernière mise à jour : 16 oct. 2020
It's beautiful. The moment you clumsily walk into a place with a wondering face scrutinising all that you see in search of familiarity. Think about it. Isn't it lovely?
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