MY BED

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its crammed full of ghosts,
of those that I’ve lost,
those that I’ve loved.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of regrets,
for the haves and have-nots,
full of the emptiness,
reeking of dust,
full of the ghosts
that once made up ‘us.’

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of my heart
and full of my lust,
full of my fears,
my tears and my woes,
home to my highs
as well as my lows.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the dreams,
that come in the dark.
Dreams of the future,
dreams of the past,
dreams that won’t linger
and don’t ever last.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the promises,
that wait in the dark.
Its full of the echoes,
from our pillow talk,
the sense of your body,
lying right here,
a whisper of breath,
the scent of your hair.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of ‘me,’
of ‘myself’ and ‘I.’
Full of the things
I do to get through,
full of soft lies,
and full of hard truths.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its full of the past,
and the future as well,
of the promise of heaven,
and the void that is hell.

My bed is empty,
only its not.
Its still full of the ghosts
that wander my heart,
that haunt my heart.