Whiting out the Black

I revised my work,

biting nails, here,

poking “i’s” out—

there

un’ringing hands,

and buzzing ears

–how you know they whisper—

bided time and

read penned lines

with feeling,

deleting in between

–almost 2 years–

(or is it almost 20?)

of tears, ink, and coldest

sweat–

since it added little

to the story.