in the dark morning.
In the blackness I write.
But there’s you
inside of my head.
And there’s your words
that reverberate
and cut my throat –
but not my hand.
So, I pen them
again
and again
to the sound
of the crickets
chirping.
And I wonder how
you could be
so insensitive?
How blatantly Cold?
But I guess I’ll never know –