Why

I am not trying to do anything
other than say
the unsayable, create meaning
between the words, on the empty
whiteness of the paper, find sound
where there isn’t a whisper, silence
can be louder than a scream
from a blackbird in your ear. To tell
you this is water, and I am infected
with poetic fire, you will know I exist
somewhere between madness and ennui,
the horrible disease that killed Edwin.

I love you means nothing. I am
aware. It is all you need.