The Words

The same words,
different verse—
fear, joy, love,
bitter, sweet,
punched in and out
of sentences,
of days,
of lives.

They have said it all before,
yet mean something new, tragic, or fun
each time they return.

Love once meant forever;
now it means letting go.
Joy was once a song;
now it is the quiet flow
between two sorrows.
Fear was once a warning;
now it is the shadow
of things already lost.

Bitter and sweet—
two words we keep apart,
though life has always known
they belong together.

We keep rearranging the words,
changing their places,
changing their clothes,
hoping perhaps
they will tell a different story.

But the words remain.

It is we who change—
we who grow weary
of giving them meaning,
we who discover
that every sentence
has been written
with a little of ourselves.

The words.

The same words.

Different verse.

And now, I'm exhausted,
I have nothing left to say—
except perhaps this:

sometimes silence
is not the absence of experience,
 it is the experience of absence.
Words can neither heal, nor harm
They can neither hurt, nor charm.

It is what remains
when the words
have finally told
the truth.