Empty
I'm getting used to your absence.
The air doesn't shimmer, electric, when you walk in the door.
The fridge is boring, no treats you like, waiting for you to want a midnight snack.
I'm getting used to no drama, no moodswings, no frustration.
No yelling.
No laughter, no secrets, no plotting and planning.
The space where you should be has almost sealed shut.
Almost.
But if you walked in the door,
I'd smile.
The End
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
Empty, which
was posted on Nov 30, 2008 by
jordan.
This is a solo poem.
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