Nothing much
I’ve erased every word I’ve written. You don’t believe me?
All the letters piled up like so much firewood and ended up
making a great display of nothingness. It’s almost like
dreamless sleep - not much to be said, really.
This is just ashes; theater make-up for a featureless face,
momentary nostalgia like an obituary in the local paper.
But don’t think I don’t care. I care. Every word I never said
was meant to convey my affection. I wrote it all down at some point.
I don’t remember when, or where it was, but I’m sure the future is
contained in those misplaced notebooks, just like the past
has imploded into this.
I realize I lied – I have no misplaced notebooks, I haven’t erased
anything that was worth keeping. Can you keep the secret?
From yourself?