the humming of the willow tree in that small town up north, the streaming river that brushed me with frigid air; yet it's touch was so endearing.
on the cobblestone paths—and although the laughter was faint— the moments were so unbelievably virtuous.
and then the dainty white curtain mornings and forgotten film and vintage trinkets turned into a stretch of an ocean.
calls on the old telephone, i never really saw that willow tree. i never really saw that river. i never felt the same frigid air, the one that made a breath lucid.
so i wrote.
i wrote for what my words couldn't express.
i wrote for the words to never bind me down
i wrote for the stories that i hoped would one day be read under the same willow tree in that small town up north.
but would they ever be read?
