MOURNINGS
It is always like this:
waking to a sunless
morning, to a silence
pervading
except for the whir
of the fan nearby.
The pen will lie untouched
on the bedside table,
for I had tried forcing
out words
only to stain the page
with lines, shallow
unfelt,
for I do not know
how to feel.
Or so you said
in the night,
while darkness bled
through my window--
and the text message
that just came in
will remain
unopened,
while your voice instead
eats away slowly
at my brain,
echoing:
yes, i am insensitive,
self-centered, i’ll give
you that,
anything you want.
Yes, i am
mourning dreams
tasting your words
of salt water
on my tongue.
It is always like this.