CALL ME BELOVED

I’ve forgotten how to put a pen onto paper,
the daily habit reduced to hunting and pecking
and joyless keys, my menagerie of pens waiting
in a backpack pouch still full to bursting.

the ideas are just too big for the pocket sized pages,
the swath and the breadth of my emotion
vast and desolate and resonating, it hums
inside of me, follows me like a forlorn companion –
a shadow in the corner of my eye, sitting on trains
wondering if this is apathy sitting next to me?

it feels a part of myself and close to me,
like a name on the tip of my tongue, or
an appointment I’ve forgotten, the dullness
and throb in the joints of your bones.