Sometimes when words escape
They leak back into the echosphere
Like a lost soul with a task unfinished.
Their absence haunts us, those words we thought
And let slip through our fingers before articulation.
They want to be spoken: need to be spoken into existence,
But never were given the chance to mature
Beyond the simple state of being an idea.
When they eventually return from their metaphysical journeys
It'll be too late to make a difference or prove their point.
The timing will be wrong, the context unnatural.
It makes me wonder if the world might have been better off
If those pesky words would have stayed lost,
And not come back to remind me
That it's rude to stand with one's jaw dropped
When a beautiful women is speaking to you.