There was a book I once read, that I can no longer find.
I must admit I
Was disappointed in myself when I couldn't remember
Its title, when those withered pages provided
So
Much.
It's amazing how someone else's words can make everything seem
Just a little bit softer,
tangible evidence that perhaps
We are not alone and that the void lurking in the corner
May just be a trick of the light.
Maybe.
But maybe not quite.
I guess sometimes the things we know to be true
And the words we hope may be true
May just be a trick of the light.
I remember writing those fragile little ropes somewhere in a notebook,
They were idle scrawls when the world seemed like a mere scribble and I felt like an insignificant
Ink blot.
Pretending to contribute, sometimes viewed as a part of a whole
And sometimes as a part of a mistake because sometimes things
Just
Happen.
Sometimes we hope they don't and sometimes we hope they do and sometimes they make us want to feel the tiny threads that kept us tethered when so much else didn't.
But then, maybe it was just a trick of the light and maybe now I'm just dealing with absence.
