One day, these words will not matter. It will be of no bearing that I commit them to this space carefully in the darkness of this room. A different breath will escape from a stranger’s sleeping mouth as dawn creeps in through these dusty windows. Perhaps they will be clean then on that one day.
I could be elsewhere when that time comes, with faded memories fewer than my fingers.
Or none to count at all.
Who knows really?
I could be running towards some bright figure, real or imaginary, in a land where I can claim a new name. By then, time may have buried the image of your face so far down a hidden crack where light never finds it. The same light that fills my eyes when I think of you now. That knowing glimmer of regret.
Captive words quickly trampled by the daily rush of pushing past the past.