It's all I can do not to think that I'll follow

but if you go, I go, see

I'll be empty, I'll be hollow

I won't know how to let you go

I've started to write again

You fill me with things that aren't sediment

they aren't doused in shadow, they are wonderful

and I'm easing them on to paper, still etched fine

they come out in short bursts, scrawled into messy lines

and they are scribbled blind, but they are all about you

I recalled the note just four hours too late
the note that I had written to hide in your pocket
found scrunched and snow weathered in mine
three hours after I put you on that train
three hours befiore I dreamt you were here again

my pillow smells like you and it puts holes in my gut
my mouth still tastes of you and it keeps tired eyes shut
I'll make a cocoon for the rest of the week, and the whole of next
I'll hibernate until you come back, cut me out and put breath into me