The midnight smiles.
I write words.
Pockets of emptiness,
sealed symbols.
Absence does not make
the heart grow fonder.
It lends distance,
and forgetting.
Love, so much
over-used.
Love is, in truth,
really love for self.
A moment, this
is what I have.
A small space of
time that I claim.
It is mine, to waste
or to cherish.
A noise outside.
Not sure what it is.
Something abusive,
something harsh.
The midnight smiles.
I write words.