On Poetry and Culture Shock

I think this melancholic little thing still counts as haiku, even though it has four lines.

So free.
Not a poem in weeks.
Not a lover in months.
So empty.

Qué libre.
Semanas sin componer.
Meses sin un amante.
Qué vacío.

 For those of you who cares about the biographical, gossipy bit, I have many poem beginnings around the idea of how long ago I last wrote something I found satisfying. Those little poem seeds rarely grow into real poems. Everything in this one was written around the second line.