"It isn't that it's empty here..."

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.