The midnight smiles.
I write words.

Pockets of emptiness,
sealed symbols.

Absence does not make
the heart grow fonder.

It lends distance,
and forgetting.

Love, so much
over-used.

Love is, in truth,
really love for self.

A moment, this
is what I have.

A small space of
time that I claim.

It is mine, to waste
or to cherish.

A noise outside.
Not sure what it is.

Something abusive,
something harsh.

The midnight smiles.
I write words.