We cannot separate ourselves
from our history. And
our journey may
not always taste
like fresh lemonade
in summer.
I have piles
of myself,
stockpiled under
the floor.
Have you ever
been hurt,
Have you ever
felt so close
that you might
touch the center
of some secret,
forbidden world?
Are you alive
and real;
sincere and slightly
insane.
I walk
in sunlight,
warmth upon my shoulders,
wrap me in
my thoughts.
I tread across
these streets;
they were never really yours,
and think of all
the times
I wondered.
