You sit in your room, not moving or blinking,
Barely breathing, with a stall.
You watch as pictures rotate through your reasoning,
Wondering if they will come back before fall.
You sit in your room, not crying or moving, not even an eye,
Going through what you just saw.
Your hips, lungs, collarbones, thighs,
the book case, the posters, everything, it all.
The ponderous wind creeping through the aperture,
The late sun leaving your eye.
You let yourself sulk in what you could capture,
Helplessly moving on from this tie.
Once they leave your tailored thoughts, you get away,
Yet everyday you look ahead to see nothing, but their shadow in the doorway.