Maybe that is the point
What is?
That there isn’t one (points to the center of the room)
I must’ve had to walk 100 miles ten times
Must’ve had to be alone for almost too long
Like bread on the verge of molding
Plums on the brink of rotting to see
Our souls
Spinning on axis, twirling, frozen in the middle of the room
A life-size music box
You are nowhere to be found but, ricordarsi
It could be my nickname for you
You reminded me of what is beautiful for what it is, not for what it was made to be
What is beautiful for how it is natural
What is beautiful for being unapologetic
What is beautiful for not being beautiful
I crawled inside every word you sang
Laid my head to rest there
When I woke alone with my incessant need
I was surprised to find beauty in what never appeared beautiful to me before –
The grave and despondent char on my heart
Perhaps I am finished imagining my life as if it were that of the lamppost instead
It is the sheer feeling of free falling when I stare into your eyes that reminds me
Maybe that is the point
What is?
That there isn’t a point and yet, still here we are
Stories wash away
Like a man left untouched for so long
I am tempted to write them again
Chicken scratch, you in every page
But I will not
For now