Sometimes I think about the days.
I’ve already had more than some, and less than others. Some just ran away from me, whether I let them or not.
The days I remember best are the ones I rose to meet. Making something from nothing.
And I think about the other days. The ones where I was stuck on the couch. Scattered across the floor. The weight on my chest.
And I think about today.
This moment.
And whatever days I’ve got left to come.
I know what I’m going to do with them.
Fine words.
Till the rain falls.
Or sleep doesn’t come.
I look in the mirror.
And I look straight back.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
