I'm boring

 Sometimes I speak.

She gives me silence.

Sometimes she speaks
to fill the void.

Perhaps she sees it now:

I'm boring.
I want my space.
No crowds.
No dancing.
No desire.

Just work.
Just work.
Until I disappear.

But work is empty too.

So what remains
when the music dies?

Why keep reaching
for nothing?

Why keep searching
when I can't find
me,
you,
or why
I began?