Upon this my heart's contusion,
edge of a blunted knife,
when I work my lungs for air,
I do so without life.

And I will faint at the future,
with all its awful stare,
for the lack of my autonomy,
knowing you'll not be there.

I will miss you in the morning,
but more so at night,
when I enter dreams without you,
I enter without sight.