count the pages of words i have written over feelings that have turned into ashes, and find a number that is everlasting.
to look back at the words my mind could string together and knit into a pattern of infatuation and frustration, and remember everything threaded together for a reason, to create pieces of where i am today,
yet these pages keep forming, and they seem to be eternal,
fingers will yearn to write about the one who gives me the feeling music creates, about the steadiness i sit in, while watching everyone else bloom into seasons, about the lessons i'm learning that send chills down my skin, where i learn that people don't mean what they say, and barely say what they mean. when the value of words deteriorate to a playful game to keep one around, to twist definitions to please the mind and manipulate one another, to learn that the value of a phrase means nothing to one person as it does to the other.
i never wish to stop feeling and pouring, threading, and knitting,
for i know what my words meant in the moment and outside of it,
creating a touch of sincerity in the world of mixed emotions and illusions.