Sometimes there’s no poetry, no syntax, no art
No remedy
for the aching heart.

Sometimes the child inside
cannot spark
It needs to stitch its pain
in the grueling dark.

Sometimes there’s no warm tea, no lost letter, no favorite sweater
No medication
to make your soul better.

Sometimes you need to sit, wait and sigh
Bury your face in your thigh
And cry, and cry, and cry.