Emotion congeals into grey clouds that hide the
light. The poem feels ink falling like warm rain.
As if there is a wet season for writing. You used
to say only Illusions are spun from light- love
and gods and dawn and the paleness around
my finger where your ring used to be. You used
to say darkness is the primordial truth. The poem
swallows its vowels. There are things that should
not be said. After the rain, there must still be sky.
Alone wasn’t a thing, till we made it up. Till a
storm forced it into the poem. Till hyphens gave
up the things they held together. The poem lies
beside me and touches the wound of absence.
We learn to feed our solitude with consonants.