The gall ink slid slow across the grain
not just black, but silent breathing.
It curled where silence might remain,
where truth lay soft and seething.

It danced in fibers, not for show,
but for the ache of meaning
each line a pulse, a moment letting go,
each word a quiet keening.

The letter held no voice or name,
just petals and a thread.
But still the ink remembered flickering flame
long after it was said.

And when the lamp gave one last sigh,
its breath a final stain
the ink still moved, too bold to die,
alive upon the grain.

I was a poet, beyond all else
so when my body goes
and the pages wait  
know that this song
means more than the sun  
with every sentence
tied to the pain of this world

I was a poet, before I had met you
when the soften glow of
the morning light, flooded my mind
the poems would write themselves
each line shining brighter
then the next
so take my flaws
and sit with my faults
because I,
was a poet, before I was myself.

Am I here for a purpose?

Do I really have a reason to be?

Why can't I see it?

Why doesn't it call me?

I often wonder —

What is more painful:

to lose someone you once had,

                      or

to never have anyone to lose?