These rooms are getting smaller
without you.
These tired bones ache in
your absence.
You are missing, from me
It's almost five a.m. and
I'm staring at the walls again,
thinking of all the women
and their parts.
Their missing parts and
the chunks they ripped
from me.
Some took more than I could give
and knowing this didn't make
the bleeding any easier.
Pushing boundaries becomes a bore;
I know how far I will go.
I saw the weathered metal chairs
on your porch, the same kind my grandmother had in her back yard,
as I drove near your house today.
I remembered our brief kiss, on those chairs. The electric shudder rippling through my entire being as your lips parted and for one sweet, fleeting moment, I felt loved.
It's five a.m. now and I'll die again today,
without you.