An Improvisation.

I looked for you, felt for you, those raised bumps of smudged blue ink. A dimple for frustration, a hole for rage, a scratch for disaster. My fingers crept upon those sweet lost words the world had never seen, those bits of your sole cast away on a lifeless plane of nothing, a bleak void that trumped all semblance of emotion. And yet, I kept looking, driven forward by hunger and fear of isolation in this cold and unforgiving world.