May 2, 2017 | 0 comments

my fingers ache for chalk dust,

for paint stains and captive sketches.

but I am no painter

and have no skill with still images,

crafted by my hand,

of sights I can’t describe.


my brain aches for words,

whose company I keep,

but who often overstay their

welcome or expire

before I’ve opened the carton.


my head aches for faded conversations

in smoky rooms,

with friends whose names I’m afraid

to write on my heart in Sharpie,

but who have already made their nests in my left atrium.


I want to express and impress

and cypress.

the last of which is to say:



but I guess I don’t know

when to stop yearning

and when to

just sprout.

About the Author

Stephen Evans

Guest contributor