I stop knowing the sound of your voice

(My newer, more realistic work. There’s so much to say in regard to this, as well as all of my poems that follow this theme, but in that largeness there is a purposeful silence I must hold for him.)

and I stop knowing how to write, stop knowing
how to fill the hole that you left, how to
fill the ache of your fingers, millimetres from
neck and warm, oh, so warm, your tie
dangled across chest and your
eyes, so close, so
secret, so secret in the way
secret is where you can
almost taste the
closeness and
you never want
it to stop
and I never wanted you
to stop,
but where
are we?

Reviews

[Monatora]

Ooooooooo! I've always thought concrete poetry was charming (But perhaps a little trivial) however your poem puts it to fantastic use!
The slowly tightening words created an interesting visual effect, matching the rhythm of the words.
Love it!

[Charlotte e.e. Griffiths]

Thanks for the read! I appreciate that you found the strengths where you could, your words have meant the world!

[The Twin Arenas]

It's funny how sometimes when something goes, it takes with it everything that explains the world. Very hard to net that thing again, that way of explaining things, or even the desire to attempt to do so.

[Charlotte e.e. Griffiths]

it really is, it takes away the words in a time when all is craved are the words, and it’s such a strange phenomena. glad you found that in this.

[The Twin Arenas]

Not so much immediately, but after, once everything is all settled. Writing is the dust rising when something hits the street, I guess. When that dust comes back down, it's hard to have things to say.

[The Twin Arenas]

Good piece, anyway. Writing about the absence of writing is something that didn't occur to me.

[Charlotte e.e. Griffiths]

Ah, your thoughts on this piece have been so rewarding, thank you. Your metaphor on writing makes perfect sense to me. Bukowski writes a lot about writing, I feel I’ve learned to be less afraid of using it myself, because of that.