Empty.

It’s standing on the doorstep,
And has been each Wednesday
Since last spring.

It keeps on knocking,
But only at one time.
Only at 3am.
Because that’s the time
When these things know
You’re the weakest.
And that’s the time when
These things know that
You want to let them come
On the inside,
And you’re getting too tired
To pretend that all you want isn’t
To have them there anymore.
But you turn over on your stomach,
With your back facing out
Because you know if you let it in—
It’ll only want to get back out again.
Because it always wants
What it doesn’t have,
Far more than what it has
And is never in danger of losing.

And when it goes—
It won’t knock,
And re-latch the door correctly
To make sure you’re safe next
Time someone else comes to stay,
Or it’ll sneak out in the darkest of the day,
While your face is turned,
So you have to remember
By the couch, and the curves
That it left by the space that it filled,
Next to you when you came home from work
And you won’t have to know
Your own space,
The one beside,
And how it is that really,
There’s something empty inside of you.
Always.

Today, it’s 3:13 in the morning
And it’s knocking louder than it ever has.
But after knock one-hundred-and-seven,
You roll over with your head under the comforter
And the pillows pulled up by your knees
While the cat stretches by the
Side of your bed.
And you try to go back to your gray dreams
Because this time—
You’re not letting it back.
You’re not giving it a chance.
You’re not letting it close.
You’re not remembering how it can be—
Not since the sweet taste of how it was
Is still caught on the insides of your teeth,
And is causing your stomach to ache.