Until

I never seem to write
or want to, or I do want to
and nothing comes
to dry cracked lips
or blistered calloused finger tips
so like spider webs
the ink just bleeds
and I do too as I do for you,
and all the while I'm
sitting blue, spinning in my chair
as I'm looking back at memories
pinned together by more memories
on a cork board by the door
and they're all tethered there
by the same cobwebs
and rusty thumbtacks
and the ticking of a stopwatch
stopped at two, seconds until I
stop to think of you