Throwing Immature Clocks to Shadows

  by jacob erin-cilberto
 
 
i'm an old 2 a.m.
poet
wrapped up in glass words
with a shattered heart
that feels its longevity waning
the beat slower and less persuasive
 
recurring thoughts of yesterday's insomnia
all night passion,
sleepless days by the mailbox waiting for you to arrive
in letters and scents
almost creates a flutter
a skip
 
but truth is a half moon
a burnt out porch light
without bother to replace
 
because i know you won't be looking for my door
anytime soon
 
so i will stare out the dark window at nothing
poemless
&
let my heart gradually still.