Last night in bed
I was caught momentarily
as I always am
in a set of words
to put down to represent what
I’m feeling — and then
they were gone as I went to sleep
and they were still gone, as always,
in the early morning
with nothing to be said.

Every day I am asked to put down
what I dreamed about in a journal
and I don’t have one, don’t need one
if there is nothing to be said,
and there is nothing to be said.

Paucity is the name of this game
and it’s got a set of rules I don’t wish to play.
Scarcity leads to elimination, to making do
with small things; this is the way of
chop wood, carry water and honestly
it’s not my way. There is an abundance
I crave, a dawn to dusk craving,
a midnight to midnight longing
for the items I keep forgetting and discarding.
Keep saying I don’t need one, but
forgetting feels so final.

I shrug it off
saying there is nothing to be said
but God knows there is something to be said
and only I can say it, though it is not
my way to say it; there is nothing
to say, and my last act will be
to convince myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T