I guess that's why I don't write anymore,
I tell her. Words are like fast approaching
tombstones now. The hue of the muse is solid gray.
Dust ruffle shadows. Tobacco midnights. I still
compartmentalize the visions. I'm hoping to return
with a flurry of potent insights. I wish I was
less abnormal. More aware of the growing absence.
She hates when I get this way. A negative wingless
form in hack stagnant pools of sadness. Eventually, I'll
lurch and veer back to the inevitable outburst if
the pattern holds true. She is wise beyond her beauty.
You have to, she implores. I'd rather be productive.
The weather is a convenient excuse. So is the familiar
monotony. But I'm content with mental starvation.
In my bomb shelter. In my falsehood of haste.