I sat in your window while you
drove home,
sprinkling the feathers
into your pillow case.
Your hands steered left and
I dropped down,
leaving a dream
of scattered dove song.
"Older chests reveal themselves
like a crack in a wall.
Starting small, and grow in time.
And we always seem to need the help
of someone else
to mend that shelf.
Too many books.
Read me your favorite line."
And we closed our box
one too many times.
The hinges, rusted in their fold.
The blankets on the bed,
unmade,
and instead,
creased with our last shapes.
Never thought we're getting old.
"Older chests reveal themselves
like a crack in a wall.
Starting small, and grow in time.
And we always seem to need the help
of someone else
To mend that shelf.
Too many books.
Read me your favorite line."
-your favorite line.
(Quotations: D. Rice)
