Written in all the little lost histories of our parents

Are the heavy sighs that would relieve the current knots

The wet pages of poetry I write in my sleep

Balled thick, stuck secure in my chest

I have told you volumes in my veins about my loneliness

It slows my blood and fills my head with dust

I have screamed silent stories about my unending love

Un-directional flowing out

Pouring, like whiskey, like water, over rocks

Wearing them down, wasting me for days

Laying me out like a river

I know I’m not new

The age of my bones settles more in sunshine

I am illuminated by what I have lost, what I can’t

Remember, it is only poetry now

I’ve lost all the stories. All that’s left is the spot on

The shelf where they stood

A gap that only reflects the feeling

Something was there and now is gone