[i've wandered days through this town.
i've wandered my way to the very brim of things.
i've found no solace in solitude, but i've found no other incontrovertible truth,
except this unending emptiness.]
i can't spend time with you without wasting mine first.
you're gone when you're here, and i'm left listless
nights upon nights, and i'm uneven and without trust,
without uttering a word. we slip between the sheets
and separate over awkward sentences. we shallowly touch
but we leave with unending force.
i'm better than leaving and longing than anything else.
i can't start my day without thinking about you first.
you're here when you're gone, and i'm half away
day by day, and i'm upended and without spirit.
there are no words for this distance, this absence,
the ghost of something real we shallowly reach for
and abandon with unending force.
i'm better at alone than anything else.
i can't sleep the same without you here,
i'm home when you're here, and we're half awake.
there are no ghosts or bodies in your space,
just a relentless void when i reach for you,
reach with unending force.
i'm better with you than anything else.