Between the lines thoughts were felt,
in a way words could never read
and emotions did not feel the need to punctuate,
love or pain, or sentiments with no exclaim.
I could tell you I have penned all grief,
all regret, all my minutes in a timeless volume.
The hurt caused upon me;
the hurt I released in to this world,
the hurt that will remain beyond my years,
the hurt of an infinite met by a stop.
A sentence to me is a hopeful infinite;
a transgressor when allowed voice, tone, and expression.
Amorous in its intention, bold in its travel,
it defies the laws of the writ and restricted.
I could tell you I have given breath to all my sentences
Set them ferociously free to pierce through space which cannot confine them.
I could hope they discover sight to only find their way back to me,
asphyxiated between the thumb and index , calming their screams to a silence.
Between the lines words were felt,
in a way thoughts could never speak.