By Alex Wirth
In this melancholy world of unfinished stories,
Will ensue a time where my hand is the one you miss holding,
Between each finger lingers regret, for what once was.
and my warmth will be the one you desire.
For it was us, that radiated such heat.
In this moment dawn will rise in monochrome,
with the impression of us, an illusion brings the faint tinge of pigment,
But to no satisfaction. For what once was is futile.
The past recoiling from your memory.
We are purely a delusion now, a misconception of reality.
The questioning of it all will emerge. The answer differing with the time pass.
Detachment, a fact now.
The estrangement that was promised away occurs,
It’s determination evident.
We are nothing now.
An absence of feeling, of touch, of love.
The vague recognition that persist in our imagination has faded,
Leaving nothing more than a journey alone, we must endure.
We are over, concluded.
Our story will be written to be read,
but you see, our novel has closed,
and our tale revised. The corrections leading us to believe in inaccuracy.
It was us that filled the margins with beauty,
Separate, lays unreadable confusion upon paper.
An evolution of chaos.
Unreadable to our surroundings, now illegible to be rewritten.
Alex’s writing is driven by her experiences with the people around her. Her parents, lovers, and snakes all bring out a part of her that can only come out in the written word and the way it can be twisted and turned to better explain how she see things. For years, Alex has been writing at times when she least expects it, leading her down those avenues in late night rambles and explicit daydreams.