Vanish

The elements in my thoughts

are emptiness in my hands, the uncertainty of your reach, i cannot think of, but only hope that the

day is not yet gone entirely from my

extending shelf. Where the literature of infinite prose are the taste of one self, to become myself

as one into your spoken words. The writing all becomes a shadow of many regrets. My hands

can only feel the texture of the paperback,

but not the words written, they can only register in my conscious to stay and appear when i

need them. I cannot grab your voice nor

your thoughts, if only i could reach the sky and write my prose in a cloud you shall read my

contemplation from a distance where ever you are. Tell me where it is your standing,

unless you want me lost. For eons I have longed the moment to come. Tell me where

to find you unless you want me to fall. The prose only say you wait desperately for hope.