Coming season

Tradition holds the monsoon is near, certainly I could use some clouds to drown out all the noise. I can’t write and it’s not cause I can’t share; call it speech fright.

You’re floating on cotton under a starless night, above veins of yellow amber, can’t ask for a better place in the city. Think of honey over a black backdrop, that’s what I think the city must be like if you fly away.

Say something and it’s not a dream anymore. Write happy and you’re obliged to commit, be what’s been written. Hopelessly, inevitably and I can’t do with mirrors right now, I just want it to be quiet. I can’t breath at all.

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