The Margins

Verses Left to the Silence

Photo by Sage Friedman on Unsplash

Now, it feels like a lifetime ago. I wanted to read it aloud on a quiet bench in the park.

If I am honest, the verses were merely an alibi. An excuse to draw him close, to watch his eyes as he listened to my words dedicated to him. I have always lived inside my poems, but I never got to read them to him. That afternoon never came. We don’t even speak anymore. Now, I just string words together in my own random way.

Now, I just spill ink onto paper in my own scattered way. Meter, rhyme, metaphors, rhythm, I don’t bother with any of that anymore. I am getting older. The calculated verses are all getting tangled up.

That is why simply breathing in these fragmented moments feels so vital. The aimless scribbling in the margins of my days is vital. What does it matter if it never becomes a masterpiece? The grace is in staying in the stubborn attempt to weave a feeling into words, is what matters now.

I no longer see life in the constant coming and going. Perhaps I am growing fiercely selfish. Now, I search for life in simply remaining.