The passion lingers,
Energy drained like light at dusk.
Fragments of what could’ve been,
So many incomplete pieces of moments,
No fire left to finish them.
I try; it’s always a loss.
2Six and still empty,
Drowning in silence,
Grasping for words that won’t come.
I replay the past,
Memories of who I used to be,
But the echoes feel staged.
Just blank pages,
And a heart too tired to write.
Somehow, I’m still breathing,
No reason, no rush.
Just habit, maybe,
Or the stubborn part of me
That hasn’t let go.
A title with no stanzas,
A line of wordless space,
A point of ink
Left on the shelf.
I’m hopeful in less
Maybe someday it may be full.
