it's the hot days that ache the most
dull, nearly unnoticeable
as i watch the sun drip down my walls and await... what?
perhaps nimble fingers splitting me open,
prodding at my organs?
at least maybe then
i'd be able to feel something
besides overheated

watch dust dance in the amber light
and listen to the drone of an aged box fan
feeling the seconds tick by
one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten

it's a strange pain, one that spreads from my core out to my extremities
not the pain of something inside but a lack thereof
it, like the time, drips like molasses, like honey, golden as the sunlight,
and it ties down my limbs to uncomfortably warm sheets

it feels as if i've been waiting
and waiting
and waiting
for something
that will never come

on these days i have no choice
but to listen to the hollowness
a sorrow both gripping and just beyond my reach
and i'm never quite sure what my brain is wanting me to do at these moments
is it simply searching
for thoughts to fill my mind,
the silence?
in that case, should i lay back,
let the numbness and the aches wash over me
like hot flashes?
surrender?
let the hole cave in?
or is it trying to inspire me?
should i take this as an initiative?
become the person i've always wanted to be,
not a dilettante,
not a liar?

perhaps this uncertainty
is worse than the sweat