I carry worlds in my pockets
And hide dreams on the bottom of my feet in between my socks and my skin.
I don’t write anymore. I just stare in to your eyes and read the story of your birthmarks.
I’ve painted a self portrait I don’t recognize. I read other people quoting me and don’t even remember what I said.
It’s all empty. It all disappears. It’s a campfire spark.
Sparks sometimes start forest fires but most of the time just float away and disappear.
