i love that we can hide.
grains of sand under unexpectant feet
crumbling beneath so much that means so little
all stories of how we came to be
-like wishes left ungranted
the idea more of a gift than reality could ever be.
both external and internal unknown leave similar questions
have similar nooks and crannies
and dirt and grease and slime
the mess somehow cleaner than the sorted
the significance of insignificance is like dust
a quiet blanket
in a room frozen in time
maybe all the magic lies within the things that happen out of focus
the parts of the picture that exist but are not exhausted