Own a house on that street.
Inhabit my writing—
In spaces between words—
Places where I pause,
Inhale and exhale.
And blind to others,
You've become my braille.
But what does it take to be a memory?
One jagged arm of lightning
And a bottle of wine;
I don’t need you
to remind—
We’re on a ball of mud
Hurtling through space—
But I don’t feel it—
Only the turmoil...
But you can't relate,
Nights when I need you,
Your touch, your face,
When everything is jumbled
And out of place.
I can’t stand your absence
The lump in my throat;
I’ve wound all the clocks,
Surrendered to their gears –
You’ll come or you won’t;
Regardless, I spent
Another day anticipating,
Watching clouds again
And rain trails
Down an indifferent pane—
God, how I miss you…
But I have no right to complain