The words (my words) do not come. No sentence slinks into place. No poetry whispers songs into my ear. Nothing. The words are silent. Muted. Slack jawed. Dead.
The words are gone. Vanished. Got the hell out of Dodge. Said adios. Said screw you. Said it’s not you it’s me. Left the moment I knew not one syllable could save me. Not one good goddamn syllable.
You see, a writer is only as persuasive as their words, and I’ve got none. Not a one. Zilch. Just wordless pockets; a pen empty of ink. A heart devoid of punctuation. It beats dull and droning and story-less-ly. It thuds without knowing what a thud means. It’s an idiot machine.
My heart, along with the lungs, veins, brains, muscles, stomach, intestines and all other humanly bits, goes on numbly. Abandoned of verse it (I) freeze. Internally there is a sputtering of ideas that cannot be freed, so a circuit shorts. Crumbles. Withers. Ruptures. Starts a frenzied panic switch release.
Alone, speechless, I choke on guttural tears. The body shakes. Writhes. Grows heavy and hot and cumbersome. Too awkward to negotiate; I cannot move. I lay in bed, cursing myself in a language I no longer understand.
The day you left, the words did too. I don’t know which is worse? Missing the words or missing you.