Take One.

there was a divergence
within the ease
it wrapped itself comfortably within
dotting the page in a 12 point font
it told itself that every day
would start anew
that the dawn would open the doors
that the sun would burn away the fog
it told itself that it would no longer
have to chase its tale
there were pages
that had been written
the words projected vivid scenes
on the ceiling above the bed
inside its eyelids and within
the compartments of its heart
were reels of its own actors
playing the appropriate parts
acting out simplicity and disparity
in a perfectly imperfect loop
there was aching tenderness
in the awkward silences
it threaded itself through the scenes
weaving a story’s chapters
without consecutive order
it jumbled in its assonance
and it stumbled
through each sentence
it focused on time and space
and what was needed
to accurately portray
it hoped the absent pages
weren’t permanently delayed