The dark vein of the pen, petrified hand.
Strand after strand of impeding light.
The paper sitting in its secrecy.
There must be something more
to these objects straining for movement,
solid and heavy, caught in the light.
The night keeps such cruel arrangement.
But how you can easily break
this symmetry. Now you are here,
pursing your lips, blowing strokes of smoke.
The air shimmers in your white noise.
The room is hung with the smell of wine,
tipping the bottles, rearranging the furniture.
I gather the punctuations, the shards
your breathing cuts into every corner.
The labor of speaking, lonely
as stones. I will leave, you will leave,
someone will write a poem.