Untitled No. 11

There is a stillness that reminds us 

of a thousand and one laughters--

in graveyards, in nothingness, 

in the forgotten corridors of the past,

and in the moments that defy 

our curious existence.

This, in its rawest form, is the same burning desire 
that elicits itself in hollow empty promises, 

like the time the rain forces itself to the land,
or the moment the moon hides 

in a blanket of empty clouds.

And yet we remind ourselves of what to expect, 
in the same way we write our thoughts 
in small silly notebooks.

In the same way that we carry our hearts in our pocket, 
and place our hand in an attempt to guard it.