Burning pages sit heavy
on a bedside table
into the night -
their light the only,
and purposefully so.
You walk past without candor,
eyes aimed into the world
yet seen.
The light fades from the burning pages,
and you start.
What is that?
A shuffle in the room,
a twinkle in the stars.
A door slams in the distance,
echoing in the walls
surrounding.
You thumb the ashes,
how they still feel warm and silky,
and then brush your cheek.
Where have my words gone today?