like flowers resting between pages of a story left unread
unforgotten 
by time

alone.

In whispered tales of fake-believe,
She painted life a picture
Of whos and whats
And in-betweens.

Volume displaces things. 
So, I turn up the music and close my eyes. 
Shift this cardboard and conundrums maze inside. 
Twist, shout, and shake about, 
but in that nonchalant way 
which feels like progress and not destruction
--another distraction--a fresh infraction--a further retraction--redletter redaction--of life and self, 
until all that's left is what lies between here 
and the nearest way out.