“My dear,”
I start.
But where
From here?
I search
For magic words
Unspoken,
The ones
With the power
To guide him home.
And with the power
To remind you it’s his.
But the “come home” words
Are worn and weak
From use.
Like I am worn and weak
And used
To the way things have become.
And even alone
With my pencil
I fall into silence.