Sometimes I feel the wind eavesdropping on my conversations with myself.
I can see it carry my words away
and they go
and they stray
and they fall,
watering the grass with unfinished paragraphs.
Scintillas of affection
like teardrops on flower petals,
He loves me, he loves me not.
The wind carries my words and I find them etched into bark,
where they knot
and they grow
and they rot
Birds build their nests out of my run on sentences,
ends tied together and set to an erratic cadence of the heart.
Empty monologues and lost stanzas are sewn into gossamers and conifers.
Sometimes the wind knows the secrets I speak
carrying with it the weight of the world and the weight of my own creation,
the bastard child of my thoughts long spent.
Sometimes I wonder why the wind doesn't weep.
Now that I'm older, I know why the wind never sleeps.