The Space Between the Keys

I spend my nights playing with words.

I use them, and they use me.

We are a match, and when we work together,

we create magic. 

But there are nights like these,

where words fail me. 

They offer up syllables they think will help

express what I’m feeling,

but as each floats past me,

whispers itself into the keys,

and I erase with a simple press on delete,

I feel myself slowly part with the only partner

that I have ever let into my heart. 

The words come from deep within me,

but still they are a friend who helps.

They offer guidance that I pretend

I could never have dreamed up.

They offer an outlet,

through which my darkest fears

finally face their release.

But there are nights like these.

My partner, so carefully formed,

so graciously crafted,

is staring back at me,

a cautious flashing of a cursor,

quietly asking what words I need.

It’s a hard reality to face,

when the thing you use to except

all the happenings in your life,

seems to fail you in your darkest moment.

I spend my nights playing with words.

Together, we create a story,

an answer to my hearts deepest tragedy.

We work hand in hand to form,

something beautiful out of nothing.

These keys,

the pitter patter of finger to letter,

is my minds way of creating 

resolution through poetry.

But there are nights like these.

Where the tapping has ceased.

and my partner,

the words through which I create myself,

has been lost to the empty space

between A and Z. 

My life is a compilation of words,

of twenty six letters that my partner and I

spend the longest nights morphing

into something that relates to life.

But there are nights like these.

Nights like tonight.

My fingers graze the keys,

but no words form.

My partner and I,

we spend our nights creating.

But on nights like these,

we can do nothing but sit, staring.

My partner blinking, waiting.

My fingers twitch,

but still nothing but letters grace the screen.

There are nights like these.

No word can define what I’m feeling,

and no matter how hard we try,

or how long I type,

on nights like these,

I go to sleep feeling resigned

to the reality that my partner and I,

we can’t always create something

we can’t always hide

the reality of pain in poetry. 

Because no matter how many nights

I spend my time playing with words,

there are some things

that are beyond describing. 

They are the fears hidden

in the space between the keys. 

They are the one thing,

my partner cannot scribe for me,

because they are the part of me 

that words are incapable of mending.