so you like to string together words, tossing promises,
nice things on a string
like a kite in the wind,
papery, fragile, flimsy.
i thought they were solid and
pure like rocks falling from the sky;
i'd pick up each pebble and examine
every side and detail
feeling all surfaces and textures
as if
they were real
promises like bubbles,
floating sweet and clear as glass but
every time i draw near,
each time i reach out to
grasp one in my hands,
it bursts and vanishes without a trace
of having ever existed..
and is it foolish to stand
silent with empty
hands,
holding the invisible remains
of empty promises?
until denial creeps in and argues
with my imagination.
you were there, but as if a ghost,
to leap behind and hide before the silence
after a gust.
you were there,
but nevermore.