We thought of ourselves as sensitive –
So intuitive to the sounds of
other people’s sadness that we
felt it as our own;
Like we were testing to see how much
sadness one body could hold.

We called ourselves writers –
The kind who wrote poetry about love and
hopelessness while sitting in
the front row of history class;
Secretly hauling around notebooks and pens,
as we dragged our flimsy lives behind us.

We diagnosed others’ depression –
While remaining purposefully blind to
our own trains of thought;
Which coincidentally always
seemed to be moving along without
any tracks.

We categorized everything with
adjectives in our heads, and
black ink on paper, but it never
seemed to be enough –
There was always, always
Something else.

Today,
We wander back and forth from
Who we were, to
Who we are, to
Who we will be,
and most of the time,
we can’t tell the difference.
We are still writers,
and we never stop thinking of love.

There is always, always
Something else.