life.

In life, as in truth

I don’t make time to write.

And my lips are chapped

And the sky is dark

And my hands are scaly

And none of that matters.

Just like this half-full coffee cup

And the cracked binding of a book

Left unread.

The leaves rustle.

I walk.

I walk, and I write.

I walk, and I write, and I listen.

I walk, and I write, and I listen, and I am changed.