By: Jazmine Dalman
Sometimes things go wrong inside,
with no fanfare.
With no banners strung or flags
flapping wildly in the morning air.
No spectators there to witness the crossing
of all those special lines.
Sometimes it happens quiet,
like the sighful, scraping whisper
of autumn leaves on empty sidewalks.
Or like so many secrets
lipping through so many pairs of lips.
Sometimes it happens like this.