Is it morbid

that when you are away

from me

I imagine you are dead?

And it makes me miss

you more,

and the world infinitely

colder

emptier

hallower

darker.

In short, dear: things are better when you’re

near.

I’ve grown tired of talking to myself,

run out of things to say.

Come back, please

Soon, come back.

Written at 12:20 at night, in my kitchen, in Agoura Hills CA.