Echoes

What does it mean to be anyone? Pages turned by the wind. Yellowing darker with each night that passes. Spilled ink. A lifetime of words frozen in their silence.

What is there to love except these temporary amnesias to be found in habits bold and crisp. Blizzards in the mind cast their tender blankets over the dead. And it's cold, but at least it's pretty for awhile.

What is there to want other than this? This deepest well of dark forgiveness. No exotic dreams dare burn in my heart. No flowers bloom on the edge of this cliff. Just eyes wide open until I draw its veil across. Just craggy steps leading only down to where nothing asks and nothing tells.

It's no nightmare. You can't wake up from it. It's just the constant echo of the life you wanted to, but couldn't live.