Drying words

Until the ink dries, there’s still time to make changes. Like watching a heartbeat skip across a monitor. Waves of life creating and then destroying the shoreline.

There are many things that shine, like stars, and eyes, and the twitching glimmer of dying memories. I don’t remember what it feels like to be missed. Constantly remaking myself to fit the places where I don’t belong. Spaces too small for the baggage I tow behind me. Distance once a literal thing, now something I keep in a jar just to pass the time.

The vanity of damp words on paper. Believing they will live on long after I am gone. To be worn about someone’s wrist like the rings of Saturn or a goodnight kiss. Craving freedom all the more now that the ink has set.

Afternoon

Sometimes it feels like the core of a golf ball. So incredibly tight and loaded with energy. Just waiting for that perfect swing to send it soaring. The open sky still waiting for gods too old to exist.

Living a life I never asked for. An unrequited journey with occasional windows. Smudgy glimpses of the one I should have had. Puppet strings creating the illusions of choice. I move forward, but the footprints behind me are not mine.

And what is life except a scale to weigh our burdens? A ransom note for mistakes we wish we could take back. Words too stubborn to be spoken or coaxed by poets. I watch the darkness limp away and feel its pain.

Outside, the wind answers questions before they are asked. Anyone can pretend to listen, but few ever know what has been said.