three in the morning
sprawled across the floor
soaking up stale clichés buried in the rug.
words long forgotten,
meaningless, overzealous little quirks
bring me comfort on nights like this.
for unctuosity is better than stoicism
and fervor better than detachment.
your glossy eyes and wandering hands
no longer brush my cheek,
preferring pensive silence to indulgence of the heart.

silence is golden and
all that glitters is gold.