everyday, a thousand stories die in my head.

little tales made of lives that accidentally touch mine on a bumpy bus ride, occupy my empty seat once i leave. pink blossoms that i built with words, wither in the summer afternoon.

everynight, my hands are stained with the colours of each moment that passed through my fingers.

and now, i blink at this mess, and wonder.

i need to remember.
i need to remember what i wondered.

4 thoughts on “Sixteen”

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