I think that maybe some people
can read hearts like a book.
but they've seen so much pain and teary eyed rain that they lock themselves in their nook and write until the dark gives way to light. and I think maybe the sky has a special place, a palace of clouds that only the enlightened can see now. maybe we should all leave and allow our loved ones time to grieve and make our own town and our own paper house. we could shelter ourselves instead of hiding on high shelves, we could breathe and just be. danger wouldn't linger and the ringer would never ring because we are people of words and the way we cling is with true ink.