the inevitable

*twenty-nine

speechless, is what you've left me
is it the lack of importance?
or the way i'm spun onto you?
recreating myself,
for every part of you,
roll on and on over me.
eroding a shape that can fit your likeness.
my hands, sore and your fingers uncomfortable
letting go seems scary at first,
but tethered together
it stings without you.
stringing meaningless words together terrifies me in all of its significance and presence.
for nothing can fill the pockets and grooves you've left, but you, and you alone.
what phrase or sonnet or couplet or poem?
can ever explain the intricate detail
of what i seek to define?
since being the one with an overflowing mouth, heart, and psyche.
the contented silences makes me writhe.
crawling out of the crevices i search for what can fill the noise, what can raise my voice.
although once again,
there's a twinge when you're not near
call me whatever you would like
the strings are in your hands as yours in mine.