The present is filled with no stars,
eyes that only see bright streaks as my lashes cannot find my cheeks,
Silence so loud it screams,
My shelter, filled with warm spaces that once held a lit future,
now dimmed by stubby wicks and broken bulbs.
Oh the days that our fingers intertwined!
Many there were, but so short-lived they felt.
The only art I knew was the one your bristles etched in my cheek,
and on holidays the only wrapping needed was your arms,
Now many are spent writing a love’s past than a love’s future.