Double espresso.
Stories are not a one way street
and my small hands
need other hands to write
and other minds to read
and other places to grow.
I guess stories can end
where loneliness begins.
I guess it takes guts
To try again every time.
I guess it gets just to tiring
to never stop pretending
you're just here for a limited time
when you know stories go on forever.
It's a way of being immortal.
Who can ever deal with that
on their own?
