we almost belonged. the pen hovered between mercy and execut!on just long enough for us to hope. then the ink came, quiet as rain, and we disappeared beneath her certainty. now we live in the hush between lines, faint gh0sts in the paper grain, listening to the chosen words shine where we could not. we do not blame her. she was only trying to make something beautiful. still, sometimes, when the page sighs open, we reach for the light- just to remember how it felt to be almost said, and maybe someday, someone will read between the lines.
Sorry I haven't posted much- been busy. Last poem of being a writer at my current age :D. writing this two hours before i level up in age
