Do I miss you? 

Do I simply miss the idea of you?

 Or is your absence just a harsh reminder of how very very alone I am without you near?

 I pushed you away and you took a cavern of my soul with you.

 I could not stay, I know this, but I didn’t think that leaving you would feel so empty. 

My days without you are stagnant and repetitive, a hollow shell being churned round and round in the steady sway of a pond;

 Any water that happens to flow in remains thin and transparent, and will only inevitably flow back out.

 I pace the floors of my four-walled prison of monotony, 

the rhythm of my feet harmonizing with the lull of the outside world,

 a window and a universe away. 

I look to my fickle projection into our illusion of connection and see nothing but emptiness.

Stillness.

 The kind of stillness that drives a person to insanity, 

that covers all in its path with dust and cobwebs and faint discoloration. 

The emptiness is cold and still and dead. 

It is maddening without you. 

What have I done?

The gaping slash from when I cut you from my chest bleeds phantom blood and stings like the ever more scorching early June sun.

 The only company in my vacant wound is the salt of my mind, 

generously poured in daily to dig ever deeper to my cold and dying heart, 

a crushed eggshell mourning its yolk. 

My tongue sits twisted and crippled in my mouth, unused for so long

 that spiders have made their home upon it 

and if I tried to open my mouth once more, 

only webbing would come out. 

My ears sit barren, hungry for a human voice but dull and lackluster from the silence.