There's not enough alcohol in the world
to fill the void you've left.
Your silence holds enough torture
in itself to remain nameless and
beyond anything explored.

Only I know -
I've mapped it out in several pages.

I have mapped out the curve on
your bottom lip that I never kissed,
and below that a chin that's connected finely to the jaw bones
chiseled by God himself.
Your soft palms that sprouted out to five
different ways in which you could have touched me.
Five ways in which I could have held on to you.

I should have.
But I was so stupid then.