It's so cold here. I'm so lost without you.
It's always been night without consuming your day.
Everything's grim without your sweet comforts
that I once held like a cross to turn nightmares away.
I've burned all the ribbons on your welcome-back surprise.
I'm sure you'll get another from one of the other guys.
I've kneeled in prayer for your return, but I'm too tired to even try.
Nothing left to promise God.
Why, anyway, would he want my lies?
The sun hides its rays from my beg-forgiveness eyes.
The clouds are accepting me with their arms open wide.
They say they'll always be here, but clouds are known to lie.
They only promise dreams of you so they can watch me cry.
I ran from the cold, but it's always right here.
I cry in its arms like you used to let me do,
and tell it what I've lived with these last few years,
my internal living memories, my memories of you.
So enduring is this claustrophobic gloom
That I've locked it all up in the confines of my room.
Just I and a pack of cigarettes—alone without Truth,
Living in this world long abandoned by you.
Your photo on my dresser watches over my pain:
Damp hair and wet lips in a summer night's rain.
It's all I have left, and it says you've never cared.
Why won't you come home, my sweet, precious Mare?
I look to your eyes for sympathy or remorse,
but there's never an ounce of me anywhere there,
Because the picture of you was already taken
before your eyes knew the love we once shared.
So now your shirt I hug close to my face,
hoping for a memory, or a sentimental taste,
But your shirt has long lost its cherished scent,
not a trace of Design, or even your sweat.
Only long-lasting lingers of my stale, musty breath
left over from the years after which you've left.