Empty Inbox Neurosis

I fucking hate empty inboxes.

Loath their statement, what they do, things undone in saturninity.

All that purposed silence.

One day I'll go renegade and fill each inch with words, letters fucking letters until the whole sky goes black. They'll ask why she burnt the sun but there'll be no way to describe it.

Somewhere there's a conversation going on without you. It's every word you dreamed but you were not invited. Phrases you've been spelling out are changing people's lives, lolling soft and hard on the palates of rogue speakers. I wish we could hear them but the accoustics here are bad.

Somewhere else a piece of you is hung up on a question. Check your neck--you're noosed, throat caught in that curve. They all end with inverted fishing hooks


                                          maybe you didn't notice? 


Dangling feet are doing panicked pointe solos on the dot. If the answer you've been waiting for fails to arrive in time, they kick the dot from under you and all translation ends. The neck shouldn't be so fragile it can be snapped by a query, but it is.

And here we dare not ask what barbed punctuation does to tongues or hearts.

Somewhere deeper still: a corner with a stool. The cruelest sit and stare there through milky cataracts, judging whom to give replies. "Do not linger long or you'll go blind."

Quick--someone left the crumbs of their resolution behind. I'll give you my share. You look so hungry and there's still hope for you, I think.

But leave us. 

I'm resealing the envelope and leaving one edge open. 


I'd rather bleed to death from paper cuts than endure a pageless silence.