We write our stories on the walls of our hearts,
and some part of us expects a golden room filled to — this line,
it will not happen, what is gold will not stay, it melts,
and we smear the oil across the walls,
dark handprints arcing across our feelings.
I don’t expect that you quite understand what I mean.
maybe it’s all so situational that you would have to be
me, who I am, right now, in this moment, writing this,
just to hope at understanding it. Even I don’t quite get it,
not in a literal sense, It’s more that these words are the only
ones that function to tell the story of how I am feeling right now.
There’s no other way to describe it. It has to be encapsulated in
the above stanza.
So whether you get it or not, whether you understand
the exact sentiment, maybe there is another translation that I have
never thought of.
That’s what I hope for,
I don’t know for;
That you will find your own within this.
For all others to come.