I’m always talking about talking.

Almost every poem I write stresses the importance of using your words,

or the joys of finding your voice,

or the pain that comes with being speechless,

and while I believe in these principles now as wholeheartedly as I did when I wrote about them initially,

today I am different.

Today I am not chatty or speechless.

Today I am not overjoyed or underloved.

Today I am not losing my voice. Today, I have nothing to say.

Sure, I’m troubled,

just like always,

but today I’m not acknowledging that.

I also have millions of reasons to be happy,

but there again,

nothing feels worth speaking about.

I’m grateful and terrified and everything in between.

Since you and I stopped talking,

I’ve got fewer quotes to spew.

Everyone knows why I’m silent

and I could slander you some more,

ramble on for days with falsified stories of you,

but I’m keeping my mouth shut,

because I have nothing more to say about it.

I’m a pretty good conversationalist,

and I could stand a little conversation,

and even laugh a bit,

but it’d all come out in a raspy whisper

because I left half my voice with you

and have been hoarse ever since.



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