The cursor is blinking like her eyelids used to when I used to bid her after a kiss.
The blank page is hungry for words like her when I used to be a rage,
An ill-tempered guy I was and silence I used to prefer.
The computer screen reflects the windows over my head; the yellowish azure burnt–
Late April evening is hazily gray; the warm seasonal air along with system ejaculated–
Heat burning my bare legs harshly but softly like her breath over my naked chest.
A poem I want to soothe the few days old ghost of her.
I suspired as the computer screen black out from time out.
Mine is Computer from So You Want To Be a Writer? by Charles Bukowski