I write to alleviate

the gaps that grow

between loneliness and boredom.

The words used to come in different orders,

in love poems and sonnets.

I wrote 48 of them 

and put them in a little book.

But now those words are lost,

just like her.

No one reads these lines,

no one takes the time.

The echoes of an empty soul

patter the page in ink

before collecting dust

like the picture frames in the closet

and the bible on the night stand.

I sometimes hear footsteps coming up the stairs

and the sadness ceases for one moment

as I believe it may be you,

but they continue down the hall

to someone else's door.

No one writes me anymore,

the friendly exchanges and genuine laughter

are left to yesterday.

The only words of solace are those of my own.

The silence follows me everywhere I go.