Empty.
The space beside me in bed feels empty,
because you're not in it.
You're not buried under these covers with me,
not suffocating me on fumbling kisses or sweet words.
It's dark under here and the space beside me is gaping open
like a cold cave mouth hung with stalactite teeth.
My hand feels empty
because your fingers aren't tied around it;
my eyes feel empty
because your lightwaves aren't crossing them.
I can't remember the last time I slept through the night.
The bars of my bed now bother me in a way they never have,
my sheets feel colder and stiff like paper,
I toss and turn and lay with half-closed eyes staring at the clock.
Every time you walk out my door, now,
I descend the stairs and shut myself up inside a hollow tomb.
Maybe it's because I can't breathe that I wake up,
maybe it's just my lungs gasping too hard and collapsing when they can't fill up.
Every kiss you leave on my lips,
feels superficial, tingles, feels rough like fingertips brushed over cracked skin.
Your breath expires against my face
instead of filling me with warm needlepricks.
The sun crackles and peeks through drawn shades,
striving to illuminate the crevices between my limbs and
the fissures in my cheeks.
One more morning has risen,
with thick golden air laying along the ground
and making my body heavy.
I brush sand from my eyelids, blow away the smoke of my dreams,
and turn to tell you what a beautiful morning we have,
before I remember:
it's empty.
because you're not in it.
You're not buried under these covers with me,
not suffocating me on fumbling kisses or sweet words.
It's dark under here and the space beside me is gaping open
like a cold cave mouth hung with stalactite teeth.
My hand feels empty
because your fingers aren't tied around it;
my eyes feel empty
because your lightwaves aren't crossing them.
I can't remember the last time I slept through the night.
The bars of my bed now bother me in a way they never have,
my sheets feel colder and stiff like paper,
I toss and turn and lay with half-closed eyes staring at the clock.
Every time you walk out my door, now,
I descend the stairs and shut myself up inside a hollow tomb.
Maybe it's because I can't breathe that I wake up,
maybe it's just my lungs gasping too hard and collapsing when they can't fill up.
Every kiss you leave on my lips,
feels superficial, tingles, feels rough like fingertips brushed over cracked skin.
Your breath expires against my face
instead of filling me with warm needlepricks.
The sun crackles and peeks through drawn shades,
striving to illuminate the crevices between my limbs and
the fissures in my cheeks.
One more morning has risen,
with thick golden air laying along the ground
and making my body heavy.
I brush sand from my eyelids, blow away the smoke of my dreams,
and turn to tell you what a beautiful morning we have,
before I remember:
it's empty.