Unfinished

My breath contains seeds of deep reflection a reminder that time is a nuisance and memory a gamble More so in this late hour, When all I have left in the cupboards is the darkness you gave But I remember I asked for your fiction. I wrote the lines, inked the measure. I begged for this pain, I opened the front door, And let you in. now my house is empty empty house on an empty street In an empty town, where winter has come, and I'm unable to warm the bottom of my feet