Rose, Prose, Poetry

The Margins

I'm trying so hard to drown it out,

The longing that cries in my heart,

Burying it under ink and pen,

As I write out words and sentences,

Weaving them into a beautiful odyssey,

So that the whole world might witness,

The wonder that is you.

I took on the role of author

Because I was afraid that no one else would,

And I knew more than anyone else

That your story deserves to be told.

I saw your beautiful, your boldness, your bravery,

And the words came to me like an epiphany,

So I took up my journal, heart pounding

And I wrote as fast as I could breathe.

I will do your story justice,

Just as I have for every other person I have loved and cherished,

Because I will prove to the world that your voice is worthy,

And most importantly, I will show you your limitless worth,

Something that exceeds the bounds of the stars and the universe.

In writing you, I hope to forget the spaces.

The absence of a soul.

Erase marks on wrinkled pages.

I'm trying to ignore the one tale that isn't worth telling,

Letting descriptions cascade down ivory pages,

So that no one might notice the broken shell

I cast off into the margins,

Leaving it in liminal spaces to rot away.

I hate that I long to be remembered,

And as an author, I am nothing but thorough,

So just as I will make sure you are remembered,

I will ensure that I am forgotten,

Forever left in blank margins.