Small Hours

I am lying still
watching the crackling film
of a three year love
roll past me.

I am speechless.
I am not eloquence
I am not poetry
I am hollowed out and aching.

There a small hours of every night
where your walls become paper thin
and your grief trickles down from the gutters
seeps into the spaces
between your toes.

This is one of those hours.
This is where I miss you
like I've never known before.