"It's an art," he says,
hiding behind his sleeves.
he is (was) the epitome of.
everything.
agile, like a shadow.

choking on his words,
drowning through a sentence.
nothing, nothing, nothing,
just silence, silence, silence.
and that's the writer's curse.
that's the writers curse.
it's all so much neater in ink.
(always was.)

but hey,
let's cut the cords.
and that's his last resort.
settle for a phoneline playing dead.
hello there sweetness, tell me again?
did you finish saying all that needed to be said?
oh darling, don't do this.
why don't you just dangle me over the edge.
how bout you form some sentences and stop wasting your breath.
the recievers just itching to inhale what's on your mind.
and i'll just wait to hear it, cause i'm feeling awfully kind.
oh but i know, i know i know,
this will never end well.
but while you're on the line baby?
please, go on, do tell.