The Fleeting Companion

I want to write a single line, just one, to hold within my memoir’s quiet space, where sorrow and joy dissolve together, becoming something weightless, something whole. Perhaps it will be my final offering, the only treasure I take with me. A life steeped in unrelenting grief— what else can I craft but a fleeting companion? The words the world desires are not mine; I write only for the silence within. Each line pulled from beneath my skin, yet they remain nothing but passing echoes. I write to escape what lingers too long, to stretch joy before it disappears, to hush the chaos beneath my ribs, to find comfort in letters and pauses. This hollow refuge is all I own, the journey, once hidden, is now my fate. Perhaps I will never truly exist until I write a poem that feels like life.