He is used to waking most
mornings, and there is nothing.
No fluttering heart,
no breathing other than his own.
It is better in a way,
knowing what to expect,
come time to meet the day.

At some point in life,
he decided that it was
easier to stop longing
for things that once
made waking something
worth looking forward to.

Those tired hopes and
those memories aching
with romantic sentimentality
never did serve any real
purpose other than to
foster eventual solitude.

Writing is all that he
allows himself now,
the only recourse back
to that ancient past
full of magic and great
soul-shattering loves.

He both loves and
hates the nothing of
these mornings,
just as he loves
and hates this fire
that has almost gone out.