It isn’t that it’s empty here, you know.
A bachelor’s life just doesn’t suit me well.
The couch is cold and hours, passing slow,
are fleeting out of reach. And I can tell
there's no escape in the distraction of a book,
no movie plot to offer up the answer.
In every corner, every time I look,
I catch a vision I can’t seem to censor.
As if your leaving caused a kink in time,
and now two phantoms, trying to keep pace,
float in and out of my periphery. And I'm,
myself a ghost, just occupying space...
No, - not a ghost - the body left behind,
without the means to give a proper chase,
eyes - glazed and lifeless limbs - resigned,
just going through the motions in a daze...
It used to be, I sought out solitude.
Jazz gave me migraines. I would leave the party
and find a nook, a quiet interlude
from the commotion, and I guess that partly
I had imagined it like this, - it wasn’t so.
The space I carved became a holding cell.
It’s not that it's unbearable, you know.
I miss your voices, otherwise, I’m well.