I read them.
Every single one.
And with each one I found
that familiar, old pang in my chest.
Often it was somewhere towards the end,
which I'm sure was intentional.
That big pow ending.
it was laid in the middle.
A phrase or an object that only I would see.
I paused on them and felt-
their little wisps in my throat,
like reaching for a glass
not knowing it is empty
and tilting it back to take a sip
and for just one second,
having that illusory feeling of water
before realizing nothing had touched me.
if anyone else could possibly feel it
without knowing the story,
if they could read the flow and realize
that there is something in the words "boxer shorts"
that could have meaning,
that could make someone well up with tears.
I wonder if this could mean anything
or that we could be important,
or if we were just pages in old books
that once fell in love,
crumpling to dust,
falling into an hourglass
with no pinch in the middle