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White Noise



You loved words,
or you did words
and I loved your words
and conflated the two things.
Then you lobotomized yourself
with disinterest.
What of you was left
for me then?
And still I ache
to hear those words,
the ones you threw away
like they were nothing.
But you are silent, false,
so I listen to the white noise
of the wind.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.