I am empty.
This pen has run all out of ink.
After all, aren’t there only so many ways
You can scream “sorry” to the wind?
A finite number of variations on
"Miss you," whispered into the infinite silence?
You are no more than an echo on my bones
But that knowledge does not keep me
From laying open skin and muscle
Layer by layer, baring my bones
Like some garish xylophone
And clumsily tap-tap-tapping,
Trying to recreate the faint melody
That hovers in the twilight of memory
Nothing more than a vague outline
Nearly blending into the horizon
You are no more than a ghost in my darkened corners
And still I chase your insubstantial form
A will-o-the-wisp that draws me into the marshland of my mind
Looking to catch the faintest impish flash of blue-gray mischief
Pursing the shadowy figure in hopes that this time—
This time!—
It will prove more substantial than the vanishing mist
My arms have closed around, every time past
Once again I pick myself up out of the mire
Trying to brush off the clinging regrets
And plod back towards the path
Feet dragging and leaving furrows in the ground
Like an empty pen, still scratching its way across a barren page
Determined to ignore any more dancing lights in the distance
Knowing all too well that the resolve will only last
Until the next one flickers to life and calls me into the darkness
I am empty.
Nothing more to say about reckless dreams of forever
No reason to keep staring downriver
Wondering how far that ship might have sailed
Had I chosen to remain at its helm through rocky waters
And yet, when I look back at the blank page
I discover that the pen wasn’t empty after all
And the trail it left behind
Still spells your name