Speak Now

A window is open

In a small but empty room

Light wood floor

Cracked and marked

With age and actions gone unseen

Now host to spots of

Bright

Clean

Light

Falling softly through.

 

The moment teeters

On silence

All but for the unsteady

Rustling of paper

The affection of a passing breeze

Begging at the corners

Whispering of unseen skies.

Like the room

The sheets appear blank

Unused.

 

But with the slightest balance

Of care and disregard

Each page is full with

Words that in sequence murmur

With the saddest joy

The loneliness of thoughts unspoken

Each letter

A delicacy in white  ink

Upon white paper.

 

The writer is gone

The words are buried

The room is empty

The breeze has strength

The paper is weak

A window is open

And through it the sheets are pulled

The moment cracked

A new story sketched.

 

And clever time so quickly

Passes

A thousand breezes come and go

Each moment falls in streams

That carry out to sea

Passing farther from memory.

Paper yellows

And with this contrast

Each silent love letter

Begins to speak.

 

But the words do not matter.

 

The reader is blind.

 

The room is empty.

 

The writer is gone.

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