this weekend. And consequently I'm writing really crappy things.

The hardest part of this is
coming home to silence.
Hearing the creaks and moans
of the house, where sound waves
bounce off the still air, creating nothing.
This is where I've been left.
Counting the ticks in my bed and
pinching off memories in mid-thought,
so I don't recall what I've been thinking about.
I only remember the feeling.
This is where you've left me.
Stuck inbetween the floorboards of a broken home,
having the energy only to fall asleep
and to only dream of your faint smile.



This hurts.