On a poem I wrote a long time ago.

It's Sunday night.  It's quiet, I'm tired from doing nothing all day, and my head and heart are weary.  I want to talk, want to discuss the words of a wise woman, the value of talking out a problem with a friend.

But it's late, and I'm sure no one wants to read that crap as the weekend's coming to a close as much as I don't feel like writing it all out.  There are jobs to attend to, cars to drop off at the mechanic's, applications to follow up on.  Tonight is about curling up on the couch with a couple of episodes of a good sitcom and tucking into those last couple of hours before we all get back to whatever pains in the neck await us in the morning.

So I'll just leave you with some old words I found while surfing files from my ancient desktop.  And I'll talk to you tomorrow, internet.

rooftop

white light skyline

heartbeat river

wish my life had

been like this

nothing here but

quiet shivers

nothing missing

nothing missed