It comes like clockwork
Fixated rock body
Down face in
That empty warm
Cold ditch
Bottomless pit

Stitching quilt less
Flip the pillow
Cold side up
Empty spot

Usual thinking
Of massless
Mornings
No lumps left

In between

Bent hangers
Lemon peels
Quite the company

Chains rattling
The empty beckoning  

Throbbing of
Rare skin

The place
Where your body
Should collect
My errors

In between
Twirling,
Trickling

Destroying every
Cloudy  fist

Sweeping over
Nothing

But broken
Dreams



Of you.