I’m always talking about talking.
Almost every poem I write stresses the importance of using your words,
or the joys of finding your voice,
or the pain that comes with being speechless,
and while I believe in these principles now as wholeheartedly as I did when I wrote about them initially,
today I am different.
Today I am not chatty or speechless.
Today I am not overjoyed or underloved.
Today I am not losing my voice. Today, I have nothing to say.
Sure, I’m troubled,
just like always,
but today I’m not acknowledging that.
I also have millions of reasons to be happy,
but there again,
nothing feels worth speaking about.
I’m grateful and terrified and everything in between.
Since you and I stopped talking,
I’ve got fewer quotes to spew.
Everyone knows why I’m silent
and I could slander you some more,
ramble on for days with falsified stories of you,
but I’m keeping my mouth shut,
because I have nothing more to say about it.
I’m a pretty good conversationalist,
and I could stand a little conversation,
and even laugh a bit,
but it’d all come out in a raspy whisper
because I left half my voice with you
and have been hoarse ever since.