Talking through but words come silently.
Everything is laid out yet still made opaque.
Rafters hang heavy on shoulders sagging from carrying the weight
of a place called home that feels less so when said,
even less when reflecting alone at chronology,
with artifacts of ardor reduced as love letters to dust.
Amassed into a cave of motives sharpened against its host,
you regress into recesses where dried remnants of anguish,
engulfing pale skin as if ice were breaking water free,
now deposited into spires clung to as allies,
scratches on shoulder blades a deserved brush with failures.
The sun is a critical eye.
Stars are camera lenses.
You travel further down to hide.
I match trajectories on paper where we seem to be beside,
tangled and dismantled as circumstance has declared,
strung chaotically together in something that bears fate’s name.
They’ve tossed shattered youth into a desert to teach them how to swim.
Stride or succumb matters not;
it will appear as if nothing was ever done,
and nothing was ever meant.
Sharing findings with a collection of colored shards,
I drew a treasure at the end of a spectrum of chances.
You reached for white and drew a chalk outline.
No company to keep except the thoughts you hate,
yet a part wonders if their presence is key to survival:
Shunning out the world to secure safety.
Evaporating with the ice as what once was greets a clouded horizon,
I’m not protected behind this shield.
I can’t see beyond the edges.
I can’t see where you’ve gone.
( ❤ Mitch)