This Exclamation

We’re dancing in our room to Younger Days. I’m catching little things like filaments taking walks illumined by the lamplight. We whisper little things like sounds of screen doors yellow vision felt-tip fingers morning front porch green leaves blockish corners and unpolished silver-- all which lie ahead of us. I catch the mark upon your neck and cradle it-- time placed it there and time will take it away.

Similarly it will do the same to us. We’re dancing in our room to Younger Days silver floats in sight--