No. 02: Scribbles in the Margins

5 Dec

You hide in places the light doesn’t reach.

Your words are kind,
but your body doesn’t speak the same.

You’re the silence between those words,
but what follows feels like a hangover.

You’re the rejected ideas—
a nod to the moment of recognition,
but not for too long.

You’re the mess of perfection.
The lines that formed to create you made no mistake,
but unseen art has no impact
on those who enter the room blind.

You’re the ever-evolving plans
that never seem to fully take shape.

You’re the scribbles in the margins—
the one to come back to,
if there is a need.

The one who holds the answers we seek,
if time is taken to look closer.

An afterthought for most,
not important enough
to be remembered in the first place.

I’ve bled outside the lines,
taken a step over the borders.

The eyes in the mirror don’t meet mine.
That’s how I know
I’ve found a new home.

I’ve found peace
in the perfected mess of my own space—
one with midnight sun,
honest words,
and considered, main-page worthy.

From The Drafts

No. 03: Astronaut