the sorrow drips down like avenues
of cobbled mornings.
when you feel like writing a novel
but only manage a phrase--
when your thoughts can't make it past your brain,
let alone the page.
you breathe,
and exhale the frost that cracks the windowpane--
a touch and it shatters
the security and warmth,
to curl in bed and watch the stars on your ceiling.
the stars that blink out one by one
as your mind's eyes do.
but those of the human you love
supernova in front of you
your anchor to sentience ripped from the sea's
living room floor.
the living room, framed with pictures
of the ghosts and the whisperers--
and limbo' s pale door.

alas in my mind,
the last eye wanders down those avenues
and as your streets cobble too,
it shuts.