I don’t dance, though I admire
you hurting souls I sit in the dark
and watch fly and dive and
wince through your blazing art.
My stabs at music returned
muddy chords upon that ebony fretboard
collecting dust in the lightless corner.
I used to draw pretty well,
but gave it up when I found
you can’t draw black onto more black.
However, I learned you can write it.
And so I did, because there are some
who will read their own stories
in these inky tea leaves.
They’re the ones who sit so quietly
in libraries, so they can hear
the voices of those dark lives they’re
trying on for size. If only for a page.
Mine never has been thus tried,
and now never will be.
This mourning suit, dirty,
taut at the seams and buttons,
shiny at the elbows, ragged at the cuffs,
is nothing but mine.
You may bury me in it if you
can find me here in my shadows.
Shhh, the rest is silence.