I wake up every morning and drape my arm over your absence.
My beard goes unscratched, the cat in me is slowing dying.
Replaced by a wanderer who lost his home to sadness,
Lost in the wilderness of his mind he clutches onto trinkets that remind him of the good times,
The times where he smiled.
The times when it wasn’t hard to get out of bed
The times when he didn’t think he’d be better off dead
(It’s just writing, it doesn’t mean anything)