I want to write again,
but the ink looks at me like a stranger.
The page waits,
quiet and white,
as if asking who I've become.
I reach for words,
but they scatter-
like birds startled by a thought
I can't hold long enough to name.
Maybe the beginning isn't a line,
but a breath-
a soft return
to the place where silence
once felt like home.
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Story by 1995
What My Heart and Mind Whisper
"I am a body in motion, but the soul stays still-wandering through days that no longer touch me."
