From this start until our last,
it’s hard to get out of our own way.
Yesterday had all its promises, yet
today we have no imagination
still stuck in our stubborn ways.
If words are all that we’ll ever have
let’s make each writing a trigger
back to the days when we were lovers.
That excited joy
having that unquenchable fever
we could have squeezed life in our hands.
Oh but not all is lost,
there are inoculations for such imaginings,
a flu shot perhaps,
to erase this one sickness
away with this aching feeling.
Let there be no more whispers
deep in the nautilus shell.
There are others who have lined up
simply grateful for the chance
to spend an hour in the infirmary
kneeling at the side of the bed.
Gladly accepting sickness from the fever.
Eventually, just like all other things
this quiet solitude will have its price.
One day someone will wake up
and find that these words
are but an empty glass.