waiting for inspiration to strike
itching of the minute hand
drying of ink
as the seconds throb in my ears
silence rings through  the
skeleton frame of the empty shell
that is my own.
heart once beating struck still
ice enclosing the useless thing.
paralyzed not by fear
but from the routine disappointment
that had made these blue eyes glaze.
there is no reason to move.
no reason to uproot these bones
from the ground in which they trusted.
i was cut open
blood has spilt and energy stolen
and it has your fingerprints.
our house was thieved
belongings claimed by selfishness
walls caving into the hot flames
that consume.
bold and i know it was you
pictures withered away
fades into the dark abyss
where you have chose to hide.
your face dissolves into those passing by
your voice in my mind softens each day.
every mark on the calendar loosens the noose
around my neck and lets my body fall to the floor.
feet distance from your victim.  

waiting for inspiration to strike
but have none left in the
empty jar of my mind.
nothing left.
nothing left after you.
you took everything that i had
when you walked out that door.