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.