There's an empty paper box that used to contain half the things we used to say in secret. Half of them are dust and paper lint; others are just pressed trees with letters, numbers, and scribbles on it. All of them are in a language written by fools to make time go slower.
Fast forward to when you dragged me to a moonlit graveyard. Above us, the clouds dance to make pictures against a deep, knowing backdrop where shooting stars pretend to hide. Twice, you counted. Thrice during the night, you woke me up like the child you are.
Backtrack to when I was plying my way though work while you were doing work that's less serious, except only that we joked that it will one day be the death of you.
There are things you took without my knowledge, but were yours all the same.
Days like these are the best. Half an hour ago, my clothes were hanging to dry in a dirt patch of rocks and potted plants. Now, the sky is gray—pregnant to burst open with large, painful drops of angry rain.
My cat chases a dried leaf brought to life by south wind. Above, birds fly fast away from a storm that's going to fall in a little while.
The days are unpredictable.