On gray days like this
i feel my words, wasted,
poured out unceremoniously
into monotoned ears.
The hours last for weeks,
ridged skin bridging
space to fill a vacuum
for an instant then
leaving, a hollow on the side of the bed
where your body should be.
Even though it’s December each
second is not quite
frozen, slow pulse ticking
inside my soul as it drips
crying through uncupped hands
onto earth that has already seen too much
rain.