The velvet voice that
used to sing me to
sleep, stale with
cigarettes but lined
with silk.

Those sweet
anythings, sweet
nothings, everything in
between, they soon
became the drowsy drone
of my alarm clock
nagging at my ears.

i kept hearing you call
out in the halls, only
to turn and find that
the voice i was
searching for was
a symphony of empty
souls echoing the same
shapeless note.

The skin that once
grazed mine and the
warmth of my lips; i
awoke to find these
nothing more than a
ghostly, ghastly wind,
an impalpable illusion.
and the echoes of your
love came tumbling down
like bats,
dead and
starving from the
winter's sun.
the words you spoke
tore through the cotton
sheets and stumbled
through the clothes
line's parallel depths.


we have no velvet
voices, only stale
cigarettes and
discarded cartons.
we have no sweet
nothings,
only mundane everythings.