WHERE I BECOME MY OWN

Sometimes we sleep open-eyed, thinking of what is to come, or what may have been.Sometimes we listen to words of a poet, and fall in love with him unknowingly--not because of what he is,but what he thinks.Sometimes we fall like torn out pages from the book of an unforgiving author,and we lie crumpled, abandoned, silent..., yet unfinished.Sometimes, we wait for every passing second and by then,we're too old to even love.