Sometimes the mouth is too empty.
A vacant lot. A cavernous core.
A place where grackles might land,
find it too barren, and fly away.
There are many things left to say.
There are many things left to leave unsaid.
There are many pieces of sugared ginger
waiting to find our lips.
And still this gnash of loss.
And still this long skein of missing you.
The night goes from vast to vaster.
The self gets so very small.
Nothing can fill this void.
Nothing spreads its wings.
And we are not the same as we were before,
but the mouth is too empty to speak of these things.