This lonesome feeling

I'd make a song of, if I knew how.
That's what JC Oates said to me.
And this empty feeling
I'd make a poem of, if I knew how.
That's what I said to you.

but instead of writing singing or crying thinking or running fucking I just maintain. sort through open bins of precious jewels, sink my fingers deeper in and choose which ones would shine when hanging around my plump neck, imagine myself like that, then put them all back and walk away. write lines and plot meter and verse, then control-a, delete, walk away. out on the street corner, pawning my eyes for a pack of hubba-bubba gum, please sir anything helps, god bless. walk away. truth is, between you and me, it's not tragic or happy or anything like that. the truth is that there are appointments to keep and to not keep, there are things to do and to not do, and everything else gets lost in between. truth is, between you and me, you aren't even there anymore. but that's okay because i think i am gone too. i wonder which one of us left first.

the sun has come out now and it's time to go.

i am leaving, clutching onto those few words and holding them close to my breast. i bring them to my mouth and gasp like a diver gasps for those first few breaths of air. those few words, unsaid, but not unknown.

what were they again?

that was a joke.
i can't forget.