Words For None

I have nothing to write about, for
I am not in love.

(Now that is a sentence
to make my modern self cringe)

Well, history lies, but love writes poetry
as swiftly as the ants swarm my honey ginger tea,
and heartache, even faster.

I have nothing to write about, for
all there is 
is time, motion, space, and energy, and
the patterns it breaks, and
the waves it crashes, and
the matter it produces, and
and movement

perpetual and perpetuating and
(precious?)

Movement moves, but it does not
leave words.

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