Dependency:  A poem.

Words. Aren’t they the truest thing on the planet?

All I had, for years:  your words.  I was
dependent on those words, my substitute for your
actual presence.

Words I could return to endlessly, let them wash
over me.  I read them for comfort, and to cure my

To cure my longing for you.

Words:  my proxy for you.  A stand-in.

Another you made up of sweet nothings in a
form I could understand.

My medium:  my best-known works

shaped filled constructed

all with words, letters, punctuation

that directed me to laughter, tears, meanings.

The perfunctory connectors– the ifs, ands, buts– of our

turned out to be weak,

the flow interrupted.