Allison

Tsay

Title- Hollow Cubes

Tell me,
was it the heat
of the sun?
That fueled your passion
to fill your words with
packets of raw sawdust.
Promise,
you said.
Small cubes pouring
from your lips
clattering to the ground
hollow, wooden sound
of emptiness.
Some are paisley
or polka-dotted,
but they are all the same.
Hollow, wooden, and brown.
Time has healed the wounds
of distance.
Nothing remains
but a scar.