So you want me to talk to you
about loneliness.
So you want me to tell you
how cold the days are
even at high noon
and how hollow the darkness
of the nights
unable to hide
the glowing green eyes
of brokenness,
how I wake up each morning
in a state of panic
because the world ahead
has no warmth in store for me
and go to sleep each night
with my heart
heavy as lead.
So you want me to tell you
emptiness is a centipede
with a hundred feet
that noiselessly tread
the cracks on the walls
of my soul
that used to be a dam
of abundant emotion
in which I used to dip
my fountain pen for ink.
So you want me to explain
how whispers
bounce off the ear drums
of the deaf.
So you want me to explain
a painting
to the blind.

But I have no reason to,
and there are no words
in any language
or any dictionary translation
of silence
to describe how much I miss you.