I’ve written over a thousand pieces
And I can’t remember one
It’s like smoking
I get the urge to light one up and write one out
Then I flick it off to the side
And when it falls, I know not where
Just words littered behind me
My waypoints
Sometimes
I like to imagine that one day
Someone finds them, reads them, and maybe they mean something
To someone
For once
If not
Well not every day is meant to be remembered