Lace Thoughts and Knitting-Needle Hands

I feel so full of emptiness
waiting to burst from my eyes.
Conversations soon digress
from meaningful to lies.

I'm standing on the window here
waiting for it to crack.
And if I'm not filling up the time
it's because I've just lost track,

There's nothing left to fill me now,
nothing of much interest.
I'm counting days by suicide hows
and discarding all the simplest.

I'm reaching out with burning eyes
so cold without, they seem.
There's still fire flickering by ice,
but it only comes out in dreams.

Wish I could say I felt your hands
when you reached out and touched my face.
But all I felt were your demands
as cold and soft as lace.