Steganography

Words are a blank canvas inside my head.
They are the night sky without the twinkling stars.
There used to be days where we would count the empty spaces like the alphabet.
One is the letter A: without the support beam; it is merely a broken down tent.
Two is the letter B: a butterfly with half its wings clipped out.
Three is the letter C: an incomplete circle of me and the cut out piece of you.

What happened to those days where Knights of the Round Table practised courtship?
When “I love you” meant a promise of forever?
And not these little mind games that end at the tip over of an hour glass.
Where sand buries memories like ancient cities that may never have existed. 

Poetry is the incomplete heart beat of words I’ll never say out loud.
They are the whispers of wishes without a genie from the lamp.
There used to be days where we would watch dreams flutter by my window.
Spring was when we played chasies with young puppy love.
Summer was when sleepless nights meant losing ourselves in the war of depression.
Autumn is our chance to let go of baggage to make room for new smiles.  

Because, memories are meant only as keepsakes.
Precious little diary scrawls locked away at the bottom of my bedside table.
They’re not supposed to burden the world on our shoulders like Atlas.
Love can always be found, if not with another, then at least inside your own heart.