MANIFESTATIONS OF YOURSELF IN MY HEAD

You are gone, two thousand and seventy three miles away,
leaving behind crumbs of everythingness, the house is a little empty now,
the curtains smell of your soft after shave gel (the one you used on Saturdays because it used to be karaoke night),
memory after memory haunt the house as if you are still here breathing with me.

I can feel the space in my lungs, I take twelve quick deep breaths but it still doesn't fill up; quite like a bottomless well.

I can feel my skin set itself on fire every time that I realise you touched here, there, everywhere.

My eyes only know what bloodshot means, and salt drizzles have become not unusually regularised.

And this heart of mine is a train wreck that is now bleeding uncontrollably; enough to not be revived. Or saved. Or found.

But you, top of the head, master of the working body, head of this biological hierarchy, you, you carry on.

(Sometimes my brain reminds me of you; unaffected, mechanical, and cold. Tick tock tick.)