Things were different.
Now.
Now alone with hot-baked regret.
Never change.
You can dress up your words.
In the end, they are the same fiction.
We dance at times.
Put on a layer of joy.
Happy, dancing.
A little while.
Then I remember all the things.
All the things I won’t do, won’t do for the rest of my life.
And I don’t want to dance anymore.
—
This post was previously published on medium.com.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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Photo credit: Denny Müller on Unsplash
