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.

~R

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