There were words.
And melodies.
And the words, broken into meters
Sing in unison
With the rests, and breaths–
Loosely measured lines,
All these and more,
All ended up with nothing.

Not the words I speak.
Not the truth words bear.
Not the soul they reveal
No, none of these
Ever meant anything, apparently, just–

Just a flimsy clump of words
Held together by the purest intention,
Thrown perhaps haphazardly,
In the hopes they’d hit you hard enough to make a dent,
To make a mark,
To make a stain,
To make you know,
To make you remember, but–

But they weren’t enough,
Not enough,
Never were enough,
To make a dent,
A mark, a stain,
To make you know, or much more remember, I–

I tried to write,
To write of something new,
Of something good,
Of something nice and beautiful,
But I cannot.
The words won’t flow,
They have ceased,
Formed in my mind,
But wouldn’t come out of my mouth,
Or hands, I–

I am used to not hearing some things,
Not an apology I need,
Not an apology I deserve,
Not the praises you think are true,
Not an unsolicited advice,
But most of all,
I am not used to not hearing anything,
After I poured my heart out,
After I took it out and hurled it into the wind,
After I let it go,
Not sure if it hit anything substantial, no–
Not a sound,
Not a thud,
Not a breath.


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