Blankets: Chosen or Stolen

Evening on the back of a receipt a carefree young man, on his skateboard January forgot, remember: December dreams are as much mine to believe in the absence of it in any tranquil moment. I walk up to my window and open it silently. I wish my birthday was just another day and then there are these evenings that see you with a glow on your face. I don’t care, they’re all so lame – who learnt about the things and sensations they would have, painting goodbyes looking at sunflowers because your legs are long when endlessness is the end and close both, and a moment is a wink is a blink and it is proven that we won’t get it, but asking for it never hurts: about her and her new friends and all or till horizons stand and hope they would understand that would question to understand a day here and you reinvented you some time at every side only to go missing from the jars of pickles inside refrigerators of pale pink walls and bright blue doors hiding freezing time and memory and old-age is here already where the world has moved past the due date of syringes and injection vials marking the beginning of electric fans on wooden tables with many coats of varnish and green paint of grass and leaves with parallel or reticulate venation origins in their roots fibrous or tap, tap, tap-dance tapping into the hidden potential difference and deference to idols and statues on huge tall pedestals washing their hands at basins in city centers at the junctions of four roads or more