I think the sadness is finally hitting me.
It is respectful--
Rolling in like the tide:
It rises every time.
I wonder what it's reaching for.
Maybe it's her.
I left my letter on the table by the back door.
I didn't send it fast enough.
I am never
On time.
I am terrible at writing now.
It doesn't sound
Right
Anymore.
Maybe it's because I've slipped
Down into the quiet
Privacies of still spaces:
Camouflaged my sores--
Waited for something
Revelatory of
The Lord.
But there are
No
Words.
