Thing Under The Chair

The coldest place in the house
Is below the chair you never sat in
I am making it a religion
To explore all the breezes that blow
Only inches above the floor
I have been misplacing dreams & sleep
Creating a church of hurt
Unlike the rest of your fans
My love does not inspire shouts of joy
The ragged tear that started at my heel
Twists me again
I search every tunnel I see
Because you are not there
I resign to leaving my lamp & matches where I found them
Sleep again under the bridge
To listen to your footsteps
Tapping out a history I cannot forget
I am an actor only playing a part
I didn’t understand
Written by the reactions of the other actors
I wish you were the monster you profess to be
So I could attribute this frozen state
To your gaze.