I’ll never know who you were
and the concepts consigned to motionlessness.
Left in scattered pieces are a series of vacant sheets,
lines cleaned off ink’s touch.
What you’d write is unknown to me,
and the way a story could transition out of air.
Through wandering am I reunited with the nonexistent,
wondering how long it can survive.
No matter the chapter, it ceases.
Regardless of cover, there’s an end.
Detached from notes and the guidelines of reality,
I wonder how long it can survive
as hearts run out of time.
( ❤ Mitch)
