This morning
Outside my window looked like loneliness
6:58 am was a letter sent out to the darkness
"I wish you were here"
was written in the fog

I pretended it didn't look like the smoke
you loved to inhale
"I hate people who love smoke, because they love it for the wrong reasons"
"Which are?"
"They love it for memories, I love it for smoke itself"
I am guilty
I can't get enough of you to fill myself.

I am being myself for halloween
but no one ever guesses
I suppose I haven't perfected the art of adequately becoming a physical abyss

Inside my window looks like loneliness also
but we don't talk about that

Now that you're gone