Sometimes

Most of the time I feel hollow

which isn’t to say that I am empty

Just that I am not sure what is filling that space

cotton

water

sand

or a beach of smooth stones

Some of the time I am a god of memory

each moment collected in a braided basket wandering

through an orchard dancing

with particles of light and colors in the wind

picking fresh photographs of time from the sky

Other times I am a glass figure on a aged wooden shelf

shrouded with dust like a heavy fog

waiting to be noticed through the dirty window

I never am

but maybe that is my fault for not trying to make a sound

A lot of the time I wish my voice was just a little louder

That my words could form a meteor shower

Instead of a new moon

Every single time I am searching for thousands of keys

to thousands of doors

I have never really trained myself not to get lost

wandering after me