love is a pastime

I think I write too much

poetry nowadays

about pretty much everything;

about the blue sky, the setting sun

and fields of golden wheat

about love, lust, regret

and the hummingbird you

locked in my chest.

the hummingbird no longer hums

i think its in there

somewhere

dead

and my poetry comes out

bland and monotone

like moss in the desert

all dry and flaky

and prone to wilting away

i looked up the symptoms

of being dead

but i don't have any of those

i can feel my pulse

and my skin is still warm

but my nerves are as silent

as usual

although your blaze no longer

trails my skies

i can still feel you here

if only hot summer nights

lasted a lifetime

and the conch shells carried

the songs we wrote for each other

now the rains have come

and love is a pastime