One hundred thousand words buried beneath the bedroom floorboards.
Choking out every last letter from the splinters in the oak.
Benevolent silence met with a matching kiss as the reward.
And any last chance at a last gasp of hope has been revoked.
But it keeps breathing. It stays alive.
A second of clarity & it survives.
There’s a creeping in the hallway, tiptoeing like malice.
It carries an air of ignorance that fights back the tongue.
There’s a feeling of foreshadowing; a plot structure or familiar device.
This isn’t Chekov’s Gun or a lovesick storybook from when we were young.
But it keeps bleeding. It still has fight.
A minute of intimacy to make it through another night.
Daylight breaks through & casts light on the situation.
Showing it was all just loneliness; inviting an end to the mystery.
But if there really was nothing, then it was all manipulation.
And the stillness would crush the soul, so they willfully repeat history.
But it keeps believing. It’s ok, it’s alright.
A few words can slip out again — just for tonight.