A Quiet Shame

I won’t even talk about it. I’ll just let it escape my mind, no thoughts of catching it as it floats by out into the nothingness to which I stare. Like the last kid on the bus, I can feel the silence like a breeze with each one departing. I don’t imagine life in fairytales, but I will in the nature of cherry trees and Bartle Types. Callous hands and succinct archetypes.

No one asked what that even means. I let the words linger one by one; they drip then fall. Once again, I’ve left the faucet of words running through my mind. Only to return to me in the brightness of blue, embarrassed by its bleakness, the clouds quickly fall behind. What a quiet shame it must be to share the sky.