Are an object.
An object in a cloud.
The object in this cloud.
The object of my thoughts.
Coffee evaporates before it warms me,
This San Francisco black hole engulfs me,
The streets are grids and lines.
Bottomless street signs
Direct without direction.
Empty stomach moans at me,
Empty music whines at me,
Empty cups and empty hugs -
I walk past fairy lights hung on bare branches,
A young face searching
For the thing that it forgot, to be given.
Empty streets filled with empty cars -
A tap that tap drips slowly, cleanly,
Hollow repetition both too regular and not regular enough -
Singing kettle whistles in the hollow halls,
The gentle click of the thing - ready.
The pad of socks on the hardwood floor,
Are so far away,
Your socks and your floor,
And everything can never be whole
(Whispers everything to me in the darkness)
Until you are here.
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