There could be nothing to this.
There could be laughter or knashing of teeth
I could have been horribly dedicated to the cause
To swift sinking of ships docked at the wharf
To the never anyone there when I call
To the swift blinking of lights
The shading of faces
To the sad state of affairs shifting across the stratosphere
She waits in the bathroom to meet the grand design
She looks in the cupboard for witty phrases to impress her friends
She finds herself drawn to the obituary pages
Wanders out two minutes before the paperboy arrives
Waiting for yesterday to come packaged to the door
Waiting for everything to be edited down to its essence
The raw emotion packaged away
Hid it under a bushel, no.
I guess I’ll let it shine.