Four cracked walls

 I miss the words
swallowing up the night.
Eating away the empty hours
between shut door
and shut eyes,
that indeterminate span
from being left to my own devices
to wrenching myself free of them,
the nightly era of solipsist proofs
when the songs that did the great ones in
shine through in cold, stark clarity
and start to hold that sharp metal sheen to them.

I wish you were here
because, you know
I'm not bothered by the dark
but by the dearth of light.