My appetite for petty words had died few years ago, when rose colored glasses were trending and reality was a highway taken by few. Since then, half written love letters lay naked on the table, covered in dust bites, a courtesy of time.
Phrases and their meanings have become a conspiracy theory, waiting to be unraveled and consumed. My forks and knives had started to rust; if not for those cooked verses, I'd have starved.
I have dishonest tales, bound in time, lying around somewhere in my mind's shore. The clock is ticking, tauntingly, as I stare at my wrinkled hands desperate to feel the petite pen's warmth. Sheets are smooth as sand, and the words are crashing like lonely waves coming home.