Color me flabbergasted. Have I become a nuisance
already? I-swear-to-God-a-month-ago you would
be cradling me in your arms, because my world
was falling apart.
Now: nothing; literally.
Even your OGM sounds bored
as I listen patiently for the beep.
What could I possibly say to
talk to me? The answer sucks.
It is nothing. The breeze flutters through dry branches
and dead leaves thinking “why doesn’t he leave me alone?”
You echo the thought.