I ache, today, for nothing.

A swarm of loving people share this space,

And five know me.

One needs me, but in the way

that flames needs fuel

(any kindling will do.)

No child sleeps on my chest.

No friend stays on my couch.

No beggar comes to my door.

No one knows to pray for me.

If I were gone tomorrow,

The spring would not long for me,

Nor would summer mourn.

The wind would push this world along.

As if that child were never born,

The ghost I was, once,

So why am I so tired,

When the only weight I carry,

Is my own?



There is nothing interconnected about hope.

We hang on its tendrils,

Gasping erratically when the air comes,

Savoring those moments as if they will last.

How soon we forget, both

that hope always leaves

And comes back.

Swinging, not quite as steady as

a pendulum or rhythmic as a scythe,

But back and forth just the same.

Hold onto hope?

We can’t.

It does not fit our meaty, clamoring grasp.

Instead, be content to feel it when it comes.

Breathe it in.

Drink it down.

Let it remind you of your wholeness.

It stays long enough for us to remember,

if only we clench our fists and try.

Hope is not interconnected —

But we don’t need it to be, really.



Samantha Aramburu

Samantha Aramburu

Copywriter, editor, and long-time learner. I write about things that make sense to me — and a lot of things that don’t.