Without you,
I have to face myself,
spend time
alone
with myself.  

I don’t let my head
fill with visions of us
making love.

I don’t let my mind
wander to a porch
where we
drink wine,
smoke American Spirits,
make music.  

I don’t daydream
about our future condo—
your music room which showcases your guitars
your records
or my study which overlooks the herb garden
smells of old, coffee-stained books.

I
sit down with my past and future
drink expensive draft beer,
have political discussions.  

Except I am terrifying.  
My face is half ripped off
and I reek of decaying flesh