There are those who write,
And those who are writers.
There are those who love,
And those who are lovers.
There are those who write to be loved,
But do not love to write.

There's something haunting about
Those shuttered windows that I find glaring back at me
Beautifully crafted, angled, enhanced,
Yet posed.
They don't crinkle when the rest of the face

At that hour just before the temporal break in darkness,
I rose to walk the streets in solitude.
Stopping, I stood with one foot on each side
of the two yellow lines: