I'm too numb to cry
for half-written poems
and unfinished conversations
that never made it out of my head--
or for the day
in the park,
when I kept all my words
inside, tearing a leaf apart
as a sacrificial replacement
for the inside of my heart
or for the park,
where I write
these poems
alone now.
Or for your miming silence
trapping me
in this box of solitude
whose smudges
are blurring the
decipherment of your expression.
I wanted to say goodbye
but you wouldn't let me.
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