...but you never wrote me one

ediye mmi,
sometimes, going home isn’t always
returning to a place where a roof shields your head
from the lonesomeness that lurk in the dark;
it is returning to yourself,
the one who never leaves when they're all gone

sometimes, silence makes lonesomeness unbearable
it echoes back cremated memories, in eerie syllables,
as you crave, again, for the warmth of yesterday,
and wish you hadn't blown out the flame

sometimes, like Precious would say,
"your poetry is all I need to arouse the wax in my ears,
and make 'em tingle as with reaction from a tickle"
until the sweet symphony of your voice,
from my old stereo, sounds once more

but you never wrote me one,
write me a poem, would you?


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