Flying Kites

When there was nothing. As arrogant as it was then. I understood my place. My needless nowhere. The careless permutations of loneliness as they shuddered through the shallow areas that speckled the deep end. In the delicate way all things untaken know themselves. Are not spoiled by expectation.

Crass understudies pacing behind the curtain of tragedy. So eager for any kind of applause.

When there was grief there was a way to validate this deliberate suffocation. Qualify the vice by the virtue of its vendetta. Stealing the words in synonyms of all the treasons come before.

There was nothing. And we were loyal to each other. For so long.

Own the shadows. Name them each. Instead of how it is now. Stagnant farewells unfinished. Owned by them.

When there was nothing the lies were ample device. To measure the quake. The frail incubations of the love. That make premature hearts old enough. To know the length of the string. The hiss of the wind. Asking us to let it go.

There was nothing. There always was.