by Sine Qua Non

Inside the bathroom, my head was filled with all sorts of lines and metaphors that would be part of poems I would dedicate to you which you will maybe never read.  But now I sip my milk, battle with sleep and forget.  Maybe the lines weren’t pretty enough to be remembered. Or maybe I need to sleep more than to write you a poem which, again, you probably will never read.


I fail you well. Good thing you’ll never find out.