It may be the time,
or the intentions,
or the hope.
It might just be the words or the dreams.
But you notice it slipping away,
through the cracks in the space of your life.
It’s the little things, at first.
Then you notice that much of it that you took for granted as yours has gone.
You never noticed the cracks.
You saw that it was two thousand.
Then it was twenty ten, twenty eleven.
Now it’s twenty seventeen.
It was January. Now it’s April.
Today, you order yourself, searching for the words and motivations in the cracks.
Before more is lost to the cracks,
today, you will write with abandonment.
Today, you will write like crazy.
At least one more time.