If my thoughts had a life of their own,
outside my mind,
If they could exist on their own
then you could play or toy with them,
touch them and see them exist on their own.
You could feel their silent melancholy, even
hear them speak of a hundred things,
of what I think and feel and don't speak of.
You could take these thoughts and
discard them later, throw them away, be sick
of them if you felt that way.
You could maybe perceive their occasional music,
how wordy, how worthless, how very sad they are,
how unworldly, impractical, how tense.
Or you could sometimes fondle them and
lock them away from day, sunlight, years, age.
You could shine them, polish them or correct them
or maybe you could sometimes, just sometimes,
listen to them late at night, before break of day,
and hear them speak of the longing they have
for similar unrequited thoughts,
or even for unrequited love.