Diary

I open

my diary

with trepidation.

It's inked with patterns

of flashy loops and 

angry dots

tattooed

on pale pages.

Memories so obscure

and intense

my ears feel red

at the thoughts

I never knew 

I could have.

A letter - a photo-

falls out.

Of a lover -

or a best friend-

I don't remember.

My chest clenches-

I can't tell

if it feels like 

yesterday

or a million years ago.

Amongst the flowers

I planted at every corner,

more scratches and scribbles:

Some trains of thought

never reach their

destination.

Did they run out of steam,

or were they derailed by life 

unable to be

photographed?

I wonder what would have happened

if I had caught that train

yesterday- 

or a million years ago-

I'll never know.

 

.

How I long to console her

this past me

that nurses wounds with

tepid shots of optimism.

I wish I could tell her-

This girl

who may have died

yesterday

or a million years ago-

it doesn't say-

it will get better.

But I cannot make false promises.

I want to tell her

She will never be alone

that I understand her-

I always have.

I know the unfillable emptiness

between the lines of 

self-seriousness

and self-mockery.

The longing 

for a future that could be-

for a past that could not.

But I cannot make 

the same promises I broke

yesterday-

or a million years ago-

I don't remember.

Tattoo print
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/538883911640680431/