Waiting Out the Night

Hands, empty and scarred,
rest on the table.
Nervous fingers tap

out a rhythm, as if
conveying a message,
to lost love, desperation,

or frustration, empty and
quiet howls to the night
that stretches and stretches.

Or maybe it is nothing.
An alternative to silence
as it swamps the room.

Stimulation to go
hand in hand
with a cup of tea.

Perhaps it is everything.
Every thought, the love
and loss and joy and

sorrow bursting until
expressed, trapped
behind tired eyes.

Hands, empty and scarred,
rest on the table,
waiting out the night

alone.

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