IT’S TIME WE SPOKE AGAIN

Blue ink, that won’t let me sleep,

Pours between my fingers,

Onto old paper,

Crumbling.

Crumbling, like old bread left out in the sun to dry,

Unwanted, even by birds.

 

But, I seem to have nothing to say,

No pattern to draw.

My hands have formed you within a pen,

But what now?

 

I see beauty, but my inspiration is speechless.

 

It’s time we spoke again,

Traded a word or two.

But even new paper seems to fail,

To coax you out,

In anything but a delirious outpouring,

Of which,

Even I the secondary creator,

Can make no sense.

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