Wish I knew how
To sell the space
You take up in me.

It’s the middle of the night, no,
It’s really the morning,
When the earliest risers rise
And I can’t fall
Asleep.

Instead I’m eating
A breakfast sandwich,
Hoping silencing one void
Will be enough to let me dream.

The kitchen is cold
And you’re here,
Condemning me
For being angry
Because your absence
Is a bleeding hollow in me.

If you don’t even want to be there,
Get out of my heart.

I beg, I plead,
But it’s the middle of the night
And no one else is here
But a shadow of memory.