Rounding the corner,
jasmine suspended,
delicate and heavy -
one fears to break the atmosphere
with an offending breath.
Still I press one foot ahead of another,
head set on going home,
heart ruffling itself
like a bird too fat to fly
away into the darkness.
Still I slow my gait,
and my head looks up in spite of itself
at the glitter
a careless child strew in the dark velvet
that cloaks us by night.
And every night of every day of this week I find myself wondering, will this be the last night I will see the stars
from here.
Steaming the window pane with a sigh
on an early morning sleepless night
(it's still dark),
I promise myself I will return to this
place that I have grown to love.
A chronicle of nose growth
'...changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose:
they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character - one has to begin too far back.'
― Henry James. The Portrait of a Lady.
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