poetry

Those fleeting spaces
have escaped me--
those spaces I would build,
and build,
and craft.
And I blink, sleepy child to
the morning.

I only find the banal now--
the useless, self-conscious
moments
that are more anxious to finish
than to see where we go.

Crinkly eyed, teeth set on
that sharp edge of
sleeplessness,
I am left, bereft
of those spaces, with just
words.

(and I would never dream of blaming you.)