She had decided
that it was futile
to count the days
since she last held someone
to try to remember
the last hand she squeezed in comfort
It was no more productive
than counting leaves
as they fell from the trees
or trace the wind
as it snaked through the plains
Being alone in a world
where “none is a number”
you must still bear witness
inscribe your name in sand
as it shifts beneath your feet
To say it matters in the face of nothing
is the spark of defiance
Ink Stains 