Day into night and day into night again for as long as this here feeling or lack thereof exists, I scribble love notes into the fibers of every letter engraved into this keyboard, repetitively, in search for something
To form a phrase of some meaning, or of placement, like structure
Like form and position
And it seems that every silent sound that is of black ink is scented with the echoes of something we will never be but could, if I just keep etching possibility in between the spaces of every word of tongue
Still awake among the still of night there is something of a soft whisper rustling through the breeze as leaves sway under bare moonlight, and I keep searching for you in these bedsheets but you are nowhere to be found
You only exist within the multitude of tiny threads which consist of letters and syllables and sentences and punctuation marks
The ones I constantly weave day in and day out, from sun up til sun down
I keep writing to hopefully feel you completely, as some sort of fabric, as cotton, or wool, or something far off
Some far gone piece of me or you or us
Something that never was
-AL
