for Pablo Neruda
Tonight I can’t write any lines,
no beautiful imagery of my musings on the stars and sky
for the night is dull and still.
Tonight I can’t write any lines,
on remembrances of love come and gone
the night is collapsed through frame and glass
and nothing looks endless through a screen.
Tonight I can’t write any lines,
to recall the longing for better days
when words weren’t necessary
to describe the complexities of simple thoughts
as the night’s forgetfulness is heavy and long.
