The Words We Write

Words are stranded on a page
blank,
leprous white.
We write so much
only to leave them
on crumpled sheets
torn at the corners
nibbled by age and time.

In a day far away
when ink fades
and churns no coherence
we will look back and wish
we remembered more;
on a day like this
we will wish for memory
only to find that it is gone,
only to find there's nothing left.