There are worse things, surely,
than desire unmet
like the tip of an unlit
cigarette,
than the empty beat
of the morning after
like a hollow sounding
pulse,

than words left
unspoken
and promises
broken
and endings left
open
to interpretation.

There are worse things, surely,
than the lack of a muse
to inspire tender
delirium,
than letters re-read
a thousand times over
for the comfort of their
handwriting,

than the bottle of
bourbon
with the quiet
insomnia
and endings left
open
to interpretation.

There are worse things, surely,
than unfinished poetry
that sings of verse left
incomplete,
than the tenebrous strain
of the wait that comes
with staring at my
phone,

than silence so
gray
it feels like
cement
and endings left
open
to interpretation.