My journal holds a fragrance - a flower pressed between its pages, decaying; it did not have any when the man in mid-20s picked it up from the narrow, expressionless, abandoned corner of the city.
Is it the smell of courage?
My journal holds
a fragrance - a man picking
a fallen flower from the street,
gently; he was taught not to be,
when in early teens
brought up in a common,
house of the city.
Joy Abandoned home gathering dust dance with fluffed curtains when a mouse runs over the piano keys