The weak pattering of my empty chest echoes in the dark.
I lay still with arms at side, as I no longer have strength to reach out.
The con-caved mattress that once felled evenly no longer shares the parallel.
And as my heart and stomach found — I sink further down to emptiness.

The warmth of the air of your exhale no longer fills the void of the brisk night,
And the respire of your body no longer quakes my soul
Provisional clutter stacks soundly within my mind
And I’m lost in a forest, drumless to your head, and my heart.

Yet, still, my blood warms from mere thoughts of my memory of you.
Scenes of treasure, and tenacity, and ill-truancy, and hope.
Fastened by nonsense, I pray to have you, as equally as lose,
this sickness… of which seems to have no cure.