I'm standing at a bus transfer point and let me tell you the amount of cigarette buds on the ***** concrete and exhaust fumes blowing in my face is overbearing

Bus 67 is the one I'm waiting for
And is it crazy that when I get on and sit at the back of the bus I hope to see your smile along the other long, tired faces of middle aged people heading home to see their kids?

It's getting worse, I can tell, because the empty hole in my chest is getting bigger and how much my hands shake in the morning is telling me how much I crave to touch you.

I remember the night that you set me on the bed right under you, the cold sheets brushing against my ******* and you caressed my ribs with the pads of your thumbs. The alcohol was heavy in our hearts and the way your hot breath hit my neck while your teeth left bruises was enough to keep me sane.

You've been dead for a couple months now and I still see your tears in the raindrops that race down my window. I miss you oh how I miss you.

At night when I can hear your voice whispering in my ear, I trace my fingers over my green veins and soon enough I begin to dig my fingernails into the lines just like you did with the knife. I drag upwards so I can finally feel you next to me but I must say it doesn't help.

I can't see the beauty in the stars anymore and I long for that same beauty that I saw in your eyes; but mostly, I long for you. I long to see you and trust me, I will see your face once again and you'll smile because you will be able to see me too. It won't be my imagination.