When the world is consumed by the
indigo black night, the hush swallows
me whole, and underneath that bruised
sky, the light at my desk is the beacon
that lets me capture the feeling. The
feeling that slips through my fingers
during the day but that holds on a little
longer in the empty symphony of
crickets outside that dark window. The
pen to the paper and the ink spills
in the silence, when nothing but the
feeling is left and nothing but the
feeling is to be dissected and communicated
in words that I keep close to me
always. Maybe I won’t write anything, and
I’ll only try to peel back the sky outside
and try to listen to myself, and the words
will continue to spill into my cupped hands,
waiting to be used another night, in
another silence, in another blank piece of
paper that wills to be filled.
Maybe, underneath the silence, I can
hold it, keep it, pin the feeling to
my heart and maybe I’ll remember it
when I’m confronted again by this
thrumming silence that speaks to me
in words that aren’t in the dictionary.
Maybe I’ll have hands big enough to
hold all the words; maybe I’ll have a
heart big enough to hold all the feeling.
I run in that silence, and I will continue
to try to capture that elusive
butterfly that escapes us all.