Tutorial

Account

Forums

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

Writing Up

In the ashtray burns my last cigarette;
the glass of old wines spills and
runs across the the table top.
My pen presses hard against my pad,
but no words appear.

I sit . . .
I sit, staring at the phone near
the door . . .
and it’s silence is too loud.
I wish . . .
I wish you would call so I could
hear your voice . . .
once more . . .
Once more I wish you would call
so I could know what it’s like to smile . . .
again.

The smoke rises from my cigarette,
sails bitterly down my throat;
I pour myself some more old wine
and grimace at its taste.

Still my pen presses hards,
still the words stay from me,
still the phone deafens me . . .
Silence . . .
With it’s silence.