and here I found myself
in complete radio silence.
You're the soft humming static,
the deafening silence
as soon as I close my car door.
There's a certain kind of peace here,
though what I have is emptiness;
what I have is nothing.
You're the cigarette in my fingers at 3 am,
if only I hadn't quit.
You're the portrait that I'd create in awe,
if only I knew how to draw.
You're every song and piece of poetry
that these hands will ever compose for months,
and even years,
and by the stars, sweetie,
do I know how to write.