A thing we cannot name
Wider than the frame
Sitting in my chair
I feel the absence there
And it’s hell.
Knowing of your flight
Brings paleness to the light
The days are washed with bleach
The nights are without sleep
Beyond my fragile reach [“To the future blindly”]
Beyond my gift for speech [dragging you behind me]
Something I cannot name [Then the touch of turpentine]
Wider than the frame [everything turns serpentine]
And it’s hell.