*Note: These date back to over a year ago. They are mainly about three different people.
But you were this beautiful being. You gave me back my words and filled up my page margins with scribbles because my mind could not stop coming up with ways to explain you. How could I keep quiet?
Paper rings don't mean much, but that post-it note on my left ring-finger might as well have been a pearl to me.
But time creates a distance. Distance creates a distance. Lack of communication creates a difference. Now, you're a memory that I used to know by heart. You're a photograph looked at too often. The sun that glowed from you has hurt my eyes, my dear. You are blurred now.
My poems don't rhyme.
And I think that's alright, because you think I'm clever anyway.
I don't think they can even be called poems, really.
But they are words that embody emotion
and that's poem enough for me.
I think I'll write my feelings in coal-black ink. I'll spell them out in cursive letters and finish each sentence with a thick period. Then I'll rip that piece of paper exactly one hundred times. I'll take each little scrap and put it in my mouth. I'll eat my words.
She's a Nowhere Girl with empty, white breath and unstretched legs.
Maybe the words come best when we're sad because that's when we fall out ourselves and give up all the pretenses of being wise. When we admit that we know nothing, have nothing, are nothing, that's when we can admire the universe.