Upon these drifted covers


Like a book without a name,

I stumble blindly into a missed array of blatant pages— 

falling into an endless dive down to questions still unanswered. 


Left with no heading over my life,

The indirection slowly suffocates anything but the basics.

I have been stripped down to a collection of letters arranged in peculiar ways. 


If I could, I would 

inquire about only one simple thing:

how could somebody not miss me at all?


Or, is it the curious, nameless enigma that draws you in?

Unfortunately through my sightless eyes, all that remains is illegible text scribbled over my arms.

Maybe, it is up for interpretation.


Supposedly, the answers reside in between the glints of hazy morning sunlight pooling through old wicker blinds.

Only then can you turn the book just right

to catch a glimpse of a long worn indentation of a script only forgotten by the most notable people.