I try to look somewhere else to busy myself counting the floor tiles or staring at the wrist watch lying on the corner cabinet beside the bed which reads 1:13 a.m., just not her face, anything but her crying face. I'm sitting near, patting her head. Her delicate fingers make a grip so tight around my hand, three fingers tattoed in red can be seen on the back of my hand near the thumb.

How much time has it been? An hour maybe. She's been crying for an hour. Stifled breaths fill the room as tears pit-patter down on floral cotton bedsheet making a similar sound to that of raindrops; clouds too heavy for the sky to bear. Eyes closed to ease the pain, she's been going all through that alone. I feel so helpless and stupid sitting next to her with my mind empty, no words to console; usually filled upto brim with words that make no sense. I thought I had words to express my thoughts and emotions...but today they left me too.

There are some moments a poet is wordless; as if ripped off of clothes; voices mocking me, look that is the real you, robbed off of every strand you weaved your clothes from; it took just one moment to unravel every thread apart. As helpless as a unclothed beggar, begging for some solace words.

© k. k.