When your fingers
have traced the spirit
who/which lingered about you
and when all your tongues have been tied
begin the fall. When in a vacuum
a poem is read silently.
A hearse for the hoarse.
It does not really matter at all:
your poetry is good only because you wrote it.
We laid together as driftwood on tides of insecurity, as icebergs seeking home. Paradoxically we may have craved warmth. This is our latest trend. We trade time for sands and bury ourselves in blankets, bedsheets, waiting to drown. You toss and turn and asked me about the millions of sharks hunting for company. I instagrammed a photo of our latest demise. Hashtagged it with love. Yes, we are in sync.
The words we left said
and lying in the dirt have gotten up
to leave. The space between us
fills still. We are left behind.
We are unwritten poems. We are
silent vowels. We are the memoirs
of icebergs, the unfolded blankets,
the ruffled bedsheets. We have lost
our selves, ourselves.