Unwritten

The pages turn no longer,
Language is silent;
my name dead on her lips.
The utensils of my craft lie abandoned,
alone.
I dream of her as a lost lover –
forever paused,
holding for my care once more
but the passion no longer grips my throat and squeezes
squeezes until questions unfold.
My arm sits still,
fingers twitching to grip the smoke of the past
but time is gone. The clock canters.
It gallops.
Icily, my body holds, waiting,
yearning for her touch again
to strike me in the witching hour.
Yearning for her to care for me
as I once did for her…