Not a single sound would be released from his lips that are bitten  &

    eventually bleed, gaze distant much like a daydreamer’s; fingers proceed

    to drum on the surface that so happens to be there, cease to do so & then

    repeat the action.

    & on occasion will those fingers snap together in unison, head will  nod  &

    syllables will form at the tip of his tongue; he’s figured it out, whatever  it  is.

    But there are times where this never happens — that he’s left with scattered

    thoughts — lost motives. When the solution just isn’t there & he can’t seem

    to find a loophole ——

    When things are just meant to be left by themselves.