Where do the words go, the days, the blinks, the breaths... one moment you are poet, the next you are who, where, what, doing what during your waking hours.
Where do the words go, where are they, under what piece of furniture, in what drawer, maybe behind the slow cooker in the garage or underneath all the pine straw outside.
Did the words go somewhere, are they hiding, sleeping, in a coma, waiting for an invitation to come back to the page? Playing hide and seek, where are the words.
I am looking......