Giveaway

You're the photograph fraying at its edges and sequestered with dust,at the bottom of that old suitcase I forget exists most of the time,anymore.

Stashed away in a secret place,beneath the bed,where I lie,tucked away from the humdrum of conundrum coated hours.

Only quiet thoughts of you remain as I stare vehemently at the wooden slats,growing old and spotty,some scars of a couple decades,traces of tragedy.It's dark down here,and most would term the silence eerie,but it mostly makes up for the musing my words can't emphatically justify.

The clouds refuse to rain on most days,monsoon fails to reign,flailing it's feeble arms in vain,and the umbrellas suffer oblivion,just as teenagers suffer identity crises.Over dramatizing days,kneading them into dough that shall never bake,thoughts of you- the only caffeine that keeps me up at night.