Sometimes I sit here and stare at the wall.

It’s white, you know, with holes left from

the pictures that used to be hanging.

The pictures of you and the memories

of all those times we spent together.

The problem is that when I sit here,

all I can hear is the clicking of the fan

as it spins, and spins, and spins.

The glitches of light begin to hurt my eyes,

so when I shut them tight I expect to see

your face, yet all I see is a frame,

empty space.