#overthought

If I write this word, and then this one,

and this one—what becomes of it?

What becomes of the white space

beneath these letters, be they on paper

or digital window? Is it now formed

into the shape of the words, or has it

moved aside to make way for this poem,

stretching out the fabric of write-space

into some ever-expanding nothingness

to make way for content that needs

to procreate and grow and populate

the pages of the reading universe?

Do these little shapes in the form of

typeface truly exist when I close the

laptop? Do words make a thought if

there is no one around to read them?

If I write them out with ink and paper

and then burn them in the fireplace,

do they still breathe as black carbon in

the atmosphere of residual substances?

If I write this word, and then this one,

swarms of meteors pelting your every thought. seek soothing lines a hypnotic following of a watch. dare to go where the line wills, and nothing more.

a line always progresses

Don’t you dare.

It’s just a text.

It’s just a phone call.

It’s just laughing and talking for hours.

No, stop.

It doesn’t matter to her.

It doesn’t mean anything.

It’s not meant to be.

Don’t overthink it.