I once wrote a love letter to myself and was surprised by all the empty space.

It began “I love you because,” and that is where it also ended.

Poetry of empty space promising more truth than all the words I have ever written.

Like the imprints of wagon wheels that have followed the same dirt road for so long that they are set in to one path, not by substance, but by the lack of.

Because no life is set in stone but mine is certainty set in dirt roads and footprints and staring at this empty space the next step looks so easy.

Because it’s so hard to tell the difference between self-loathing and self-motivation and I missed the trail titled “improving yourself because you love yourself” so long ago that I think I’d get lost if I tried to find it again.

Because information has a shape and I wish I could mold it to something that was longer than “because”.

Because all I want to be is brave but I haven’t been scared for so long.

Because all I know is I want to be useful, but I place myself outside of the equation.

Because.