It's Still Life

This piece is completely depressing. It’s fiction, based entirely on a dozen random words.

A Temple to Misère

Ten years gone, and I’ve
filled a moat around my heart.
I still reach for you,
expect your touch,
but all I sense
is a shapeless absence.
An ache.I miss you.
I soak in emotion,
and leak.

I’ve lost the words to say
this is impossible.

Sleep. My sleep is smoke.
It comes in fits
and swings — flat as skin
as I track and trace you.
I thought I saw your smile,
but it was my tears dreaming.
I struggle through the eye
of a needle, and lie down
beside your memory, here
in this temple to misère.

This week’s words: miss saw sense bits words flat leaks eye temple track swing smoke. Written for Sunday Whirl #289