this is you in your winter overcoat, huddled in a bus station corner under the bright lights and muffled sounds of passing travelers. the soft strands of your blond hair cover your eyes as you try to remain hidden in the little world of you. no one knows you, but all that are see you. there is no fear in your face, no worry in your brow. you are exactly where you want to be.
this is your polariod camera, underused and rarely moved, sitting on a chair by the foot of your bed. its pictures are warm and filled with everyone. they collect in a drawer, on a pinboard near a lamp, across your desk and in a secret place under the mattress. they keep well enough and you dream of them when asleep.
this is a document not being written. its letters are fake and more like a cliche, massaged and poorly fashioned for the benefit of us. this is a love letter to those who'll never know. this is fleeting thought, bereft of anything original or pure, stymied by the dreary hands that create it. this is-