Composed on a run

With autopilot turned on

And an old love song
 

Quick little poems

With no start, nor a clear end

Grown just in my head
 

In a cozy nook

Not unwritten, but unsaid

He waits each year

For that one week of the summer

Where he can feel free

And finally be himself 

Kin among kin

Finding safety in their differences 

He watches the young ones