Wild-Spirit

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the book of us, sitting quietly untouched up on some shelf. gathering cobwebs and dust. pages turning yellow. the scent of old paper. words, hundreds and thousands of them, lost. jumbled up and restless. these words were once us. they are us. page after page filled with memories, the things we said, the things we didn’t say, the things we did mean and didn’t mean, the what if’s and could have been’s. there are no chapters, just an endless number of pages. it’s a strange and poignant feeling to keep away such a fragile thing, in the dark, lost, no where to be found instead of a close and familiar place. here lies the book of us, kept away in some shelf in the back corner of some room where all things forcefully forgotten seem to go. once upon a time, forever ago.

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    the book of us, sitting quietly untouched up on some shelf. gathering cobwebs and dust. pages turning yellow. the scent...
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    the book of us, sitting quietly untouched up on some shelf. gathering cobwebs and dust. pages turning yellow. the scent...
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