When I wake you are gone, but I already knew this would be the case. You are always gone when I wake, always, and each and every time I see the place you should be but are not
The past is a dark haired monster with angry teeth and vicious claws, and an appetite for presents and futures frightening, terrifying in its vastness. The past is a wounded monster
Sometimes I like to imagine you sitting in some tastefully decorated room, a glass of wine lazy in your hand, your lips red from its taste, and thoughts of me gentle in your mind.
The smell of you lingers beneath my fingernails, while the taste of you hides in the corners of my mouth, my tongue darting every minute or so to add taste to the bright, almost blinding