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.