Forced words are poison for my whimsical, pulsating heart.
I'm sitting on a rickety chair, hoping for a tap on the shoulder
from God.
It will never come.
Leaves dance outside your window, and still,
nothing.
My motivation for life has always been tied to foolish words;
foolish people.

A musk is left on my scarf from the night before.
It's from the woman I did not speak to.
I can write now.
I can dance too.
Of the things I still have not done.
With the music that will never come.