There are moments
when habit and subconscious imprison me
in an odd-shaped place I call my past

I find myself dialing your number,
heading towards your office,
and calling your name when I come home

I find myself straightening your toothbrush,
puffing your pillow,
and telling you to turn the lights off

I find myself
looking at your empty side of the bed and thinking "oh he's up early"

I believe its called a force of habit



But my God,

Am I dreadful
of losing the force
enclosing me
in my so-called
"prison"

Dreadful
of escaping this prison

for beyond its walls,
you are no longer here