Hey!! What's the story?
If you feel music, skin to inside, warm with melodious fire...
The first line of a poem, never finished. You penned it, left it, drifted away. We used to think we could write songs but you had too many words - soft sounds and lilting syllables.
You began to write in a series of spiral bound notepads. The paper was cheap but the words had value. I spent hours unravelling their meaning, between the handwriting and the sentiment.
Years later, they spider on. Jagged thoughts on faded lines.
You are written out.
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