Words

I woke up this morning.
My head hurt.

The room looked a little…
There were words
all over the floor.

Were they resting,
or were they broken?

Were they mine
or were they yours?

Words I thought could fix things
made them worse.

I heard them crying last night,
or was that you?

Pulling the words closer for comfort.
But they slipped away,
like sweet nothings in the morning light.
I tried to hold onto them.

I wrote them down.
But they refused to be tamed.

On the pavement,
but the rain washed them away.

Spray-painted the walls,
but the council painted over them.

I picked over the words you said
’til they were numb.

Dead.

Ghosts.

I stood by the river
in an Ayrshire storm,
in the rain and the wind,
the words at my throat
like a knife.

I let them go.
And I searched
High,
Low,
in the pubs,
in the libraries,
in the everyday,
in a pure morning.

And I found my own.