sarpedon My fingers tremble in anticipation
But anticipation for what?
I've set out all my thoughts and words
On the wooden table in front of you
Hoping that one day, soon
You would do the same for me
And lay a thought or two onto the
Creaking, wooden table

I would continue to pile words up
But my words are not meant nothing
They have a finite and limited supply
And once I know you are not accepting them
They just pile up, going to waste
And going to be forgotten in time

I long for your words
Give them, carry them, deliver them,
Or even just have them gift-wrapped and sent
At least I will know my energy has not gone to waste
Each new word, phrase, and emotion
Comes with it a tax, a progressive one at that
The more I spend, the greater the toll
Each word extracts from my mind
what's it to you?
who go