the hardest part
is the end of days—
when the world falls silent,
and men grow tired
of hearing themselves,
their own opinions.

bartenders wipe down
the bar tops,
chippy’s shutter their doors,
like the rats,
I scurry home—

no purpose,
no reason to doze off,
for there’s nothing
on the other side.

nothing.

days bleed together.
nights became pointless.
there’s nothing to write anymore.
alone.

i never expected
this world without you
to shock me like it does.

-

if the strongest urge
is to sleep,
then what is it
to call you