The Hour Grows Late

There is nothing left in her room except for piles
of books, notebooks, and loose sheets of paper.
It looks as though a small library exploded.

I read through thoughts, one-off lines, poems,
and short stories organized into no organization.
The mind is a beautiful thing as it seeks to exist

outside of itself. Right now I am projecting my
interpretation of her reality through my lens.
One day it is possible that someone else will do

this for me and the piles of writing in my room.
That is not now. Now is time to write in these
dark spaces of night. To find some semblance of

order in a world that delights in chaos as much
as organization.