quarter past eleven

quarter past eleven, he
approaches – a
curve in the face turns
upward, babbling and 
talking and chatting
shining in pure of
child’s enthusiastic.
i can’t help but
smiling, and reply
softly as rushes of
enjoyment come in mind.

Kind of like that. I’m a type of social person, so how can’t I make him my new friend? And no, this isn’t poem. Just random bunch of words, made like a poem – because I like its pattern.



One thought on “quarter past eleven

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