Speak it (tonight)

I am wading neck deep in a roomful of rose hearts floating belly-up in red wine foaming at the surface, and I watch hopefully as the surrounding walls collapse burying my soul. Grief happens in slow motion. A black and white slide show of static is mainlined through my veins, and the light shudders through a foggy lens before me. Your presence is a ghost. Under this rubble, I nose frantically for your scent. The notebooks upturned with your words are clumsy with memories, and they fuel my mania in an effort to experience all lingering remnants of you. My ulcered stomach growls for you, and I cannot breathe. The dust from this vacancy emanates from beneath the past and it is choking me with its intensity. The sinful envy that I feel for those near you makes me lustful for blood, but I surrender. It has been 148 days since I have been close enough to smell your tobacco and leather, and, this I know is true, I will never be the same.