There is No Title

How many rotten things
in Denmark, Scotland
or Ireland...
My words gone
called away wasted
into a void, black hole
of eventual love tuned
out, turn away, tone deaf
when there's nothing to
say or hear...
My words gone into
a length of no tomorrow.
How many more times
would it be ok to whisper
in your ear, "I miss you"
You become a shadow I need
to touch. Kill me with this
closeness just out of reach,
worse than before and still
worth the pain.

I'm not alright,
but I will be.