Sometimes there isn’t a title for a story.
The words just flow like the sound
of a brook in a wood no one knows of,
until an author describes how the shift
of the gentle breeze allows soft rays
to caress the water to life.
Then the sounds of the woods come
to life before the next words are read
and you are there, and its the brook
of your childhood that you played in
with your friends, and that laughter
that only a child can make echoes in
your ears and we are there, together,
chasing the ghosts of youth that
started with a simple sound,
and a word,
and sometimes there are just no words
to label what that means.
What it means to go back and forth,
between reality and imaginary
and yet you are still here,
reading and being and living
and understanding that living
doesn’t always mean the hottest club
or hiking the highest peak,
but finding laughter and love
with something that only exists on paper.
The author doesn’t always know
what their words mean,
until they are flowing from their fingertips
in a cacophony of taps that just
happen to match the beat of the music
spilling from the speakers just inches away.
Aiming to misbehave like the trees on a windy day
sometimes we are just here to be,
and the bubbling water plays around bare feet,
remind us all,
while nothing gold can stay,
moments like this never truly go away.