And Perhaps We Can Die Just a Little Bit

The space in which I sit
Feels stretched but empty
It still holds an imprint
Shaped like me
And a warm dent where I rest my beliefs.
I have become a cool empty distance
With no question or answer.
My life has fallen away from itself
Like a dried leaf dancing aimlessly down
Forgetting its pull to the sun
Did my life add up to what was,
And what wasn’t?
My ideas still grow
Into all they don’t know

(They don’t know)

My life once so important to me
Is a collection of speedy tasks
That don’t really exist as meaningful
In a world of ants and bees
Of oceans, skies and galaxies of silence.
I inhale on the humbling truth
That nobody will write my poems
And I wonder if I still have more to say?
Or did I get stuck on the fact
That you were never mine?
Perhaps all I wrote from you
The love….the heat…the joyous abandon
Was the greatest fiction of my life
And perhaps this idea
Makes me die just a little bit

Before I am truly gone.

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