ever so quickly –
the turning of the page.
we write words we never intend to share.
fill pages of our story with documents of who we were –
designations of what we could become.
yet seldom allow audience to know the us of now.
closed.
collecting dust.
we keep the volume in its place upon the shelf.
and wonder why alone becomes our roommate in the chamber of discontent…
standing too close to the edge 