You were in the reflection of the car window at a stoplight,
sitting on the "rent-a-center" couches.
You are the highs in my voice as I'm screaming at the top of my lungs
the scuff on the front of my shoe.
You are dried salt at the corner of my eyes begging to be mined
used to save meat and people from themselves.
You are a blackened screen of a cell phone, you are lonely without light.
You are an empty bottle of pills, you are the scars left from a fight.
You are everything with meaning, yet you only live at night.
In the morning when I wake up you are not there.
You're a whisper from the open window, pushing in cold air.
You're a single word at dinner that I can barely hear.
You're the warmth held in the blanket from my toes up to my throat,
you're a crumpled up old letter, the word "love" scrawled in a note.
You're the biting cold upon my fingers that I cannot seem to shake.
You are everything to me at night,
gone in the morning when I wake.