Haven't you seen when the world stops moving?
No sooner had you left than when I closed my eyes and leapt.                                                  
I have no pity for you but my own ghostly, living, empathy.                                                    
    ­                                                                 ­   Felt the air as it took its vacume exit from the room?
You know little of what makes me my own, I can forgive.                                                        
My tongue has touched bitter haste and thanked words gone to waste.                                  
                        ­                                                     Didn't you hear the tedium evaporate into sick silence?
There are no words for what you have yet to smell.                                                           ­         
I cannot drive home my own dystrophy to you who has never known it.