All the doors are open in this bolthole,
but none of them lead to you.
I, with my arms wide open,
am a curiosity.
I do nothing but gather dust.

And I’m so tired of telling you
where you should go,
even when my voice
brings you running back to me.

I liked crawling together
in dank unlit places.
There is simply nothing for us
in the bright autumn air.

Never, did I imagine
being sick of ‘I love you,’
but truly I hate it
when you open your mouth.

You just talk
about nothing which ever did matter,
in white noise and whispers I cannot discern.

What happened?
To us, to you, or just me.
Bilingual, but bereft of a tongue,
I can’t help it.

I just watch you paint shadows
and let the stains dry.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017