When the words run out

At 6:57 this morning, the words ran out. They stopped.
Protested. Said they had done more than their share of work. 
I had run them ragged, denying them breaks for food or sleep,
using some so often the serifs had been worn from their forms. 

So you’ll understand that I don’t have a choice now
but to press this passion into you directly, make
these lips and hands and skin pick up where the words
left off, trembling from the lightning thrown from their wake.

And if someday they, too, announce their strike,
I’ll turn to sculpture or paint or piano or mime,
never letting a day go by that I don’t impress upon you,
with urgency, the magic of you and our time.