Carrion

To my dearest, Jeet

I wait for you to come up
with words that I need
to hear right now,
yesterday, the day before
to no avail

You are a man of words
who prefers silence
metaphors out of madness
like the bigger picture
made up of small pleasures

I am counting crows
waiting for a dispatch
you promised me
right now, yesterday, the day before
to no avail

It’s waiting on the end of the world
a cessation redoubled
a hurt carried in the heart, succumbing to
some age-old, learned helplessness