Unread texts swiped across my screen. I’d never call it personal—I’ve left him on read for a week, and I don’t reply to her as quickly as I used to. I hear the ding, I watch it flash, and for a few fleeting moments, I stare at black, bold text with fading, flooding thoughts.
Found: a poem, down a dusty old path that leaves have scraped with many final breaths. When asked why it lingered so, it laughed and held onto my arm, and hopped with wreaths of dry, pressed daisies (all the color drained) upon its golden head.
You touch where none have touched, catch my future as it flutters through. Cradling it, softly you ask, “You all right?” I cannot speak.
As far back as extends the human brain, did words by virtue of themselves enchant, aligned, symmetric, synchronized refrain, a verbal song, humanity’s descant.