like a virgin womb,
i have nothing for you today.
no words to hastily scribble on coffee stained papers and tuck into the pockets of your life- that you could pull out and read at a bus stand when it’s raining too loud for the moon to hear you scream, or throw away when it gets too crowded with little folded pieces of long numbers full of short affairs.
no poems to press into your skin when the winter gets so lasting, that you begin to forget the shape of the silence growing through your veins.
there’s a lot of silence.
too many minutes filled with nothing but hesitant colloquies and unhesitant farewells, and just a few without the paralysed longing.