I tried to write at work. This is as far as I got…
When you hold on to what you can’t have
It’s like holding on to broken glass.
The harder you grip it, and the longer you risk it
More of what you need slips through the cracks.
So you focus on the what ifs, and the feeling on your lips
That never did, and never will exist.
It’s the hands that tell the story, and the words they write are sweet
But the wounds they leave are greater, when the meaning behind them is fleeting.
They’re just words, and they don’t come anymore.
Their space is filled with silence,
and silence says what words try to force.