Member-only story
Missing Numbers
A Poem
oh, i’m just a scattered digit on the page —
barely able to be believed,
barely able to be found —
and you were nothing but something
i made up in a figment
of too much longing.
life is for the alive, that’s what i’ve always heard,
but i feel as if i’m dying each and every day
because my words don’t bleed free
and i’m hopless and wanton
in all the wrong ways,
so listless in motion.
oh, i’m an unknown quantity
no one ever tried to figure out at all —
and there’s so much i’d rather do
with this one sorry life
but i’m not here,
not really.
death is not a doorway, but i peer through
as if i’m a ghost weaving into being —
haunted and haunting —
and now i know what’s true and what’s not
because somehow you were the heart
while i was ready to be smashed at will.
