Sigh. Lent.

Today is not a day for words:
they evaporated when the sun rose, violet pink and red,
this rose sun, melting the day before.
They’ve lost all meaning, these words,
these words I loved the day before,
beating page thumping at my fingertips,
pulsing hymns of hims and hers and theys
and souls and images.
But now all I see are shapes, hollowed,
carved out silhouettes of what they meant
empty as a shadow. Meaningless-pointless-shallow
shapes. I’d rather sit outside bare in the cold
chilled bones from sitting too long on steppes
of stones, feeling drops of rain dampen my cigarettes,
than sit at home writhing in papercuts,
hemorrhaging feelings.
The day before words were so much more,
but not today, because
today is not a day for words.

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