Reid@YWP

It’s being told about stars

You can’t see

Yet

And having a book taken away

Before you can finish

And then having the middle spoiled

But not the end.

It’s smiling into the sunshine

at the bottom of my bag is a book, 

lying there like a security blanket I'm afraid to touch. 

my seat feels cold as ice as I sit down in the room where not one pen or pencil is seen in sight, 

There is a sort of gentleness; a sort of beauty in the empty bottle of wine sitting on my dresser amongst more innocent things

I'll remember the dew drops.

The ones on the grass after

a particularly humid night.

I'll remember the golden sunlight

seeping into our kitchen window

in the morning.

It would catch the side of our faces,