Waking up with a borrowed view
Engulfed in the quiet beauty
Of the everyday.
The grapevines are not my own
Nor the sky
Nor the morning in it’s perfect fog
But I can’t help but feel a sense of coming home.
Though this space is not my own,
And therefore neither is the moment
it is present in the inklings of my subconscious
The familiar un-familiarity
Of belonging to a place.
Oh to live only on the notion of stolen moments
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