The Missing

The useful memories all have gone, the fun and laughter gone to sleep, for eternity or one week? Who knows, but my darkness births this renting prose. The sun rose up at sleepless morn, but was missing something lovely: your silver voice from far away; I miss the lark, and miss you sullenly. The joyous memories all have gone, the talk and hope all gone to waste, for eternity plus one week, I know, as vodka births my latest woe. The moon shone through a lonely night, but was missing something lovely: the times where we would speak past 12 and you held my soul of ugly.