Two days, and your smell continues to walk from one side to another house. Your smile trying to escape that picture frame on the London eye, and loneliness is laughing at me with an outrageous success.
Wind vain attempt to erase your essence. TV loses interest if you're not here. My voice trails off since I walk through the front door. I am a piece of furniture. I've never lived alone, living with my family I went to live with. I'm not used to support the weight of the house on me. I do not know how to talk to your absence. I am dumb, I have a mouth full of empty words. Of I want you waiting for your kiss let them back out. The sofa is less comfortable. My dinner is burning, and no protest, and I miss that step grumbling about the kitchen leaving a trail of spots behind me. Noise lift me right, I do believe that advances your return by surprise, and when I look through the peephole, there is the neighbor in one of his endless trips to the storeroom. The night surrounds me, the moon also sit alone by the side of the glass. The dream plays on my door and let him pass. I brush my teeth, brush your absence hurts, but nothing hurt as much as seeing your side of the bed empty. I curl up between the sheets, bed cold complains another night, I seek your hand, smell your pajamas and close my eyes. The blind climb up passes up the reflection of the moon to keep me company one more night, last night. Because tomorrow will be back here, and finally back to being me.
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