spill

there is no start in what I want to say
because as I look at the sky and
gaze at its infinity and wander off
with the misty wind that
tends to hug every part of
me, I see the details of 
the fine lines of ideas
and sparks and scraps of paper
torn and not, they lay
scattered on the cold floor
there saying something that
should have been spoken
yet still waiting to be unearthed
traces, just traces
of sweet summers
familiar laughter
meaningful glances
they were long gone
as the waves crashed upon 
the tiny ebb of
warmth, it dims its flares
as I bleed into another
torn piece of paper
I can't start what I want to say