the bad nights are empty, not even half full. Toilet sitting, eight straight fingers pressed hard, with a screach inside, to forehead wishing it'd open for an instant to fold out and down; spill to the floor then mop up. I know they're asleep and so are you. Calls. Calls. Calls. Calls. Empty trash cans, no rubber floor mats and snow covered door handles are more lonely than I, but I'm something else. Push down to the floor and open your heart. There is no love in loathing, only passion and justice prevails while vice lingers; waits, deciding what's next. The smell of fish awakes us to nothing. And not you. you're gone and yet youve never been here. I've created something I can't retrace now and youre still not here. youre not coming home to somewhere youve never been. and never will be.