I'm standing in my bedroom Aimlessly staring at familiar sights as if they are not there. I'm considering the love letters I never sent, The depth of this churning in my soul For which no word is ever good enough. I wander to the closet door, to the couch, to the bathroom, back to the bed. I wonder at the upturned face, sad eyes, restless spirit that is you. What cheap trade, what unworthy currency-- This language to which I'm bound. Dizzied and muddled and lost in the mish-mosh, A jumbled reel of your eyes, your lips, your hair, your hands. I am tortured and terrified, Desperate and deluded, Wanting and wanton. And still, it is not enough. You cannot know this delicious torment, This incredible yearning ache. The simple words belie the truth, Speak only in generalities and vague halfway-theres. I'm standing in my bedroom Pretending I am holding you, helping you, healing you. I'm considering the futility of trying, When I cannot rely on this paltry chattel to convey What hides inside my sluggish heart. The page is filled with worthless scribbles, Never good enough to explain, So they remain . . .