Stories rugged under the bed, stories that sit comfortably on our bedsides.
Stories that rip apart hearts, stories that are a catalyst to the pulsating heartbeats.
Stories that sing of oyster coloured clouds, stories that come full circle under the starlit sky.
Stories that talk of falling hope, stories that boast of paper frail dreams.
Stories that love would call a glitch, stories that love would make click.
Stories that waltz in middling grounds and smirk at new beginnings.
Stories that hum of 'One that was' and 'One that will be.' Who are we but stories that are scribbled just as a speck of dust within the galaxy?
Stories that rip apart hearts, stories that are a catalyst to the pulsating heartbeats.
Stories that sing of oyster coloured clouds, stories that come full circle under the starlit sky.
Stories that talk of falling hope, stories that boast of paper frail dreams.
Stories that love would call a glitch, stories that love would make click.
Stories that waltz in middling grounds and smirk at new beginnings.
Stories that hum of 'One that was' and 'One that will be.' Who are we but stories that are scribbled just as a speck of dust within the galaxy?
.. And a late spring storm plays on the edge of the half open window.
For half an airless moment, dreams made more sense than reality ever could.
Beginning of a faintly romantic affair with the maximum city.
Forged in the skies.
Lost. To be found.
