words are printed there, and i know them. i know their meaning. ‘ball’, ‘dog’, ‘run’, ‘gone’, never coming back again.
yet sometimes words are nothing more than black and white spaces. empty. waiting to be filled.
sometimes there is too much room in the margins. and faces begin to appear, because they were never made up of space but of life and vibrancy and pain.
and when they spoke they used more than words.
their names were more than words.
‘are’ or ‘were’;
death is more than a word