89. Longing

What is it about you,
still left in me
At times a void,
Life, without your presence is devoid
Of life,
But you're an illusion
Created over and over, again
Like the dust in the winds
Smeared on my face
Like the smell of my soul
Reality is excruciating
Like a blade slitting my wrist
When stepped out of this dome
The misery of your absence
Creeps in
Like tiny small worms
Burrowing deep into my crevices
The flowing blood
Nonchalantly turning me blue...