After the books, the food, the walks with books and chalk,
After the recordings and the instruments,
The phone calls and virtual realities,
Eventually the silence sets in.
The house talks back, faint echoes of the subconscious.
I hear your footsteps in the hallway,
See the sun setting and think,
What a waste of a day.
The itch comes, too. The need for more, but stranded
Stranded for petrol…..
Picking up the closest thing just to keep hands busy,
Hands full.. But they aren’t. An empty week or an empty hour,
We are starved and empty and waiting for anything,
Starved and restless.