Words (bp coyle)

I heard our song today, quite by chance. Some idiot stopped at the lights, radio playing at an anti-social level. It caught me completely by surprise. It’s been years since I even thought of it.

I had to turn back, rush home, forget the shopping. I made it inside before the tears began.

I wanted to write it all down. The laughter, the affection. The emotions shared, the closeness felt. The hope. The heartache. The oneness found and then lost.

I wanted to capture it all while it was back, as fresh as when it had first happened.

But it came out dead. Empty. A shallow series of words, one after the other. Meaningless rubbish.

And what are words? Just clumsy tools that come somewhere close to explaining what we feel. Somewhere close though never close enough.

I remember clearly what it was like to hold you, to kiss you, to take your hand.

I remember clearly what it was like to lose you.

How can all that emotion be captured in a sentence?

Or in a novel?

All of that happiness and pain?

Words promise so much. Each new one discovered seems like a new key.

Empty promises.

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