I am not your sometimes.
I am the traces of solace on unlit dirt roads.
I am the bottom of the bottle.
I’m the last drag of your last cigarette,
tasting me on your lips
long after disposal.
I am the empty space on your chest.
I am the cold chill of change, the goosebumps too.
I am the deafening silence in mists of chaos.
I’m the illuminating moonlight,
hiding alone and in the dark.
until morning returns.

~

You are the the book I throw across the room
then hours later pick up again
to leaf through your pages.
  You are not my sometimes.