I ponder the void of an empty sheet of paper, and
question the arrogant notion that a properly filled page
can make a much more profound statement than a decidedly lacking one.

Indecisive as always, I turn to the empty page and ask, “Do you find yourself fulfilled or lacking?”

By way of an answer the page replies,
“I once was a tree,
who was a seed,
who was the sun,
who wanted the moon,
who loved the earth instead.”

It’s a slow death,
the sort in which bone still carries flesh
around bed posts and abandoned socks

in which hairs still stand at attention
for a whisper and the burn of hot breath
on the back of the ear

in which copulation still
bates a hook on those sandy shores
and awaits a bite

It’s a slow death,
but a death nonetheless

I run out of breath before I even start to speak,
and intentions tumble uselessly around my tongue.
All the volumes of disappointment and shameful yearning
push up against my uvula, causing me to dry heave in a
wet pool of self-pity.

It’s not that I am pining,
I just wish it was your hand searching the short hairs
at the back of my neck. Instead it’s another lamppost,
and yet another green sign marking the way to an
increasingly unfamiliar scene.