Q u i d a m

Intimate gray

Never been read, never been heard—

Suddenly, it becomes the conclusion of whacked

pocket, memories in a jar.

Something is slipping away, in the tip of jarred

dream, I ask you— what do you see in ordinary

kitchen table? Was it a coincidence that carved

knife, cutting through woody silence?

Today, passing with fewer words that rhymes

and drives, letters falling in keynotes.

Piano— running late in each letter, brushing fingers

tapped out the rhythm of empty songs.

However, it's not enough to cut it with grassland

wheels, a quick show in front of the glass stare—

plenty of images, running together

an image, getting blurred in the intimate grey.

— 3rd December, 2023.