Sad Labels:
happiness
,
retrospect
,
sad
It was easier to write with paper. The breath of the pen fogging up the mirror. The howl of the paper. Echoes of empty placing their wagers.
It was harder to write on paper. So true. The choke of forever in every stroke.
She had gone to bed. With the tv on. As usual. And the closet open. Full of clothes she'd worn once, but never again. Potent eras arranged in the order of their significance. The persons she'd briefly been. More herself than she cared to remember. In the fade of denim. The scream of stitches stretched.
It's to be worn only once. And then discarded. Like so many things we want. Stalled at the moment it's most alive.
It's to be written.
Arranged. More than remembered.