There's a pulsing in my head I can't seem to shake off
and it always beats to the rhythm of your breath.

& because of this I can't seem to pick up
another black or blue pen for my life because
it still leaks the words you told me;
still leaks the words that used to be true.

& I think that's what baffles me the most:
that words remain in the moment - just like pictures
and carved wood - but as time passes by they
lose their meaning and fade away like dust in a sandstorm.

& there I sit, right at the eye of the tempest
waiting for the pulsing in my temples to subside
in the dead of the night with nothing but
the silence to keep me company and the chaos to keep me warm.

gd