Photo sky view from Taipei 101 Top floor.
Wasted Dreams
Where do dreams go when their ink runs dry?
Do they linger as faint strokes on yellowed paper,
Half-read, half-remembered—
Or are they folded gently into drawers,
Like love letters too tender to burn?
Why do we let them fade?
Not with a cry, but the sigh of a witness
Who knows some words were never meant to stay.
Tomorrow’s page lies blank, bright—
But tonight, the old script aches.
I cannot rewrite your story,
You ink-stained, velvet-hearted man,
Nor restore the bold characters of your youth,
When hope flowed like sumi, dark and sure.
But here—
I can press my palm to the space between chapters,
Smooth the creases from your brow like vellum,
And read to you the lines you’ve forgotten
Were ever beautiful.
I cannot unsplit what’s been brushed away.
I cannot promise my hand won’t tremble
When it writes forever.
But I can dip my pen in the quiet,
Trace the edges of what remains,
Until the next page turns—
Not with an ending, but a pause,
A breath held in the margin’s hush.
It’s alright if you hesitate.
Even the finest paper fears the press of new ink.
But when your eyes grow weary,
Look for my fingers curled around yours—
Guiding, not gripping,
Until the last stroke finds its rest.
Photo Credit: Jason Kinkade Jason Kinkade’s Substack
Very emotional! Very meaningful!
Thank you so very much for sharing!