In an Effort to Translate Solitude

When I told you, “My sheets are empty,”
did you think of blank paper or vacant covers?
Place a pillow over these words to hide my language, if you wish.
You will muffle the sounds of whispers and belly aching cries dried in ink.
My heart feels like canceled trips and postponed plans.
How can palpitations exist without wounds and wishes?
I am hurting and harboring simultaneously,
these griefs in a wicker basket; and they are made of liquid.
Your hands were never fashioned to be a cup or my comforter.
When the leak reaches the dirt more than just my expressions are muddied.