Tell-Tale.

Emptiness in eyes are first followed by words.
They will tangle, twist and leap above
to curl neatly at the foot of the bed.

Wintered silences stifle
what stranger beats the door.

Most nights it's like not being alive.
Most nights it takes the pillow too long to dry.

It'd be too late to wake the walls enclosing.
Too late for hopeful slander.

They'd ease through the cracks
in the heart that now sleeps
Brave sleep.
Eternal disbelief.
Scrape the callases from feet
...but the scars won't go anywhere.

A soul with a window
carries the draft
with the stench of the void.

Most nights it's like not being alive.
Most nights it takes the pillow too long to dry.