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No words lace my skin,

Tangle in my veins,

Stringing my soul along with yours-

And I can no longer spend the day with my head,

Echoing with the absence of letters, dancing,

Woven throughout my eyelashes;

 And this blank page staring back at me is a knife.

Buried in my slow-pulsing heart,

Is a gradual death-

For I cannot last another day when all of these phrases don’t string together,

Don’t echo somewhere along your fingertips and

These scribbled sentences don’t reach me like they used to.

They don’t make my spine tingle with words unsaid;

All that consumes me is raw un-satisfaction,

So unlike the familiar disquiet that tainted my coffee-stained irises,

And inside my blood flashes,

And now the hand that clutches this pencil twitches

With the nothings that linger within my skull

And oh-

I am standing alone,

Waiting for words that will never come.

Sydney.Elizabeth.Emerson.