i haven't written in months.
i'm terrified of prying out
the demons in my solar plexus
and birthing them into something
as tangible as ink against paper.

the things that i miss, they would
have me shaking in my metaphorical boots.
things like your socks on my floor,
or your words hanging like ornaments
in the sunlight above my bed.

the things that i can never get back,
like lost time and fleeting moments
of untouched beauty;
a look, a crippling smile,
the honesty of it all
could sink ships or worse.

ossifying words into something tangible,
a task fit for earthworms or kings,
leaves me wanting more, or maybe less,
waiting for something bone-deep
and overflowing with light.

someday it will find me.