Broken Writer's Block

and just like that
I turn a new page in this time of fever
he has returned to the hole he calls home

at last the city is mine again

I can feel healing bloom beneath my skin
and still I strive for alternate consciousness

indefinite oblivion

When I was younger I felt heart ache
and wrote poetry

but in this limbo I feel nauseous loss
and the lack of poignant grief is too empty
and too terrible
to
pour
onto
paper

there is no elegance in divorce
no dignity
no star-crossed lovers here

there is only the cold conviction that all the nights
I screamed helplessly into my steering wheel
raging at the empty highway

tellingly
honestly
publicly
meant nothing

to either of us