Smoke lingers in a still room.
Dust swirls with the motion of bodies.
Water won't rippled without being touched.
Blossom falls with the gentlest caress.
Lives were still lived without being remembered.
Books still contain stories without being read.
Maths was right before it was proved.
But words had no meaning before they were said.
Lives to go on without acknowledgement,
or thoughts, or out lingering looks. A
gentle caress stays on the skin, still,
sublime.
Do deleted words still exist?
A life never led was once lived,
but only in your head.
She's mine, she's yours, she's ours.
She's everyone's.
She's nobody's. She's herself.
She's her own person.
You can't have. You don't want.
You still love. You still hate.
You long for. You strain for.
You gasp for. You ache for.
Slowly exhaling into a still room.
Moving together in a quick motion.
A still basin of water.
Arms reaching upwards to the trees.
An unread book on a dusty shelf.
A friend long forgotten.
A pen on a piece of squared paper.
That word makes no sense.
