Your heart is a door, slightly ajar -

- a little opening in a room of paper clouds and plastic cups. No air to breathe, just wind - the unexpected breeze, cool against sun burnt cheeks. The wind against open eyes, blinking rain, stinging sun burnt cheeks.

Your heart is a door, slightly ajar. Open at 10, close at 5. Inviting people to come in, only on working hours.

Your heart is a door, slightly ajar: tempting the brave, hungry for a show of courage; but sick to its stomach when fed, finger ready to poke your gullet.

Your heart is a door, slightly ajar; slowly closing; saying goodbye.

Done between reading and writing for clientcomm. Hah. Imagine that! My hands are itching. I need to write again. I have no venue, no drive, no nothing. Just a sort of emptiness; a craving unsatisfied. Yes, the vagueness of it all huh.