She always longed for my words, although they meant nothing to me.
I always wrote novels inside the cracks of sidewalks.
Just because I knew few people would ever pay attention to the details inside the wounds.
She handed me paper one day, knowing how easy it was just for me to let go.





Knowing it took the clouds more effort to cry on chalk line pages then stale paper.
And how I liked the feeling of wet colors draining down into the grass.
Watching every ant drown in rained out words.
While I bled colors with worn out, stained fingers.





And how easily I feel like a rooted flower.
Often stitching away from the world to feel nothing but myself.
Wondering how long the words written between my creases will go unnoticed.
And if she will read my words like she often does, knowing I’m everything inside her small box of nothings.





I long for that hope that she keeps trembling locked inside her fragile lips.
Wishing to touch every bittersweet detail with a picture of what she should look at.
While I stand there in that same room trying to find the center of reality.
Looking at a collaged mural knowing that the world’s details are in fine print.





And that I’ve yet to discover a meaning inside something so meaningless.





I write these days, under piles of melting snow.
Just because I like a challenge, just so I know she’s still listening.
And before I melt away, die like a rooted flower.
I hope she still longs for sidewalk words.





And knows that a small box of nothing is someone’s everything.






And I didn’t cry that day.
As I closed my creased petals as the sun went down.
Unstitching the roots, and all the words attached inside their veins.
While she read my final novel. I bowed my head to the meadows.






“Even the smallest words can mean the greatest things, if you only look between the lines.”