YOUR ABSENCE IS A BURGLAR- Kindra M. Austin

I’m running out of poetry; your Absence is a burglar of words and rhythm. You’re the one who’d always told me to write my heart out. Just write, baby girl. Tell me, how am I supposed to cope with the loss of my goddamned verses? Who am I, if not a writer?

***

I wandered way down cobblestone,

deep in fog exhaled from lungs.

Mourning mind preoccupied,

my flitting feet followed instinct—

landed me at Dimwit dive-bar,

Old Town.

Somehow,

I ended up supping a ginny Gin Rickey.

Stood

in the nook at the

billiards table, a beatnik boy-toy of

Nimoy stature floated me a

hawk-eye look; affixed a fag to

his bottom lip, and

I just knew he was the type who

liked

Wuthering fucking Heights.

***

What comes next? I have an idea, but can’t seem to execute it. I’ve been staring at this piece of shit for…