The house burned down and I lacked the curiosity for the world outside of those walls,
now ground
up and spit out.

It's not like it matters to me; it matters to no one.

So I keep dreaming,
only in your bed or nothing
I cannot think without you.
I can only write without you.

Keep dreaming, only in your bed
Or nothing. Or nothing, flooding over the rim of the cup,
is everything—it used to be. Now
memory squeezed me dry and left the pulp