keen coral
I watched the pen break
bleeding ink,
spilling truths,
writing the hurt before I could speak it.
The paper, once my quiet refuge,
lies now a battlefield of fallen words,
each line a body I failed to save.
I felt the page tremble,
age cracking through its spine,
crumbling under the weight
of everything I never said.
How do I write,
when my first words were meant for you,
and my last ones waited for you?
I mourn the paper.
I cradle the pen.
They stayed
when the world didn’t
but so did you,
and that is why it hurts.
Why do I write,
if tomorrow is just rumor,
if you are only a fleeting thought
lost like morning breath on a cold window?
Yet my hands tremble still,
for truth stains deeper than ink
and I fear
you will never read
the words
I bled
for you.
narrow condor
