I'm plagued by my dead desire
to write to you everywhere
and draw you in between the lines.

I loathe the hole in the mirror,
stories with unfulfilled endings
and the mocking smile of static time.

I abhor my tasteless tears,
my defeated gazes
and my powdered shadow hidden in a drawer.

I detest the emptiness in the yard,
the grayness of my seemingly dead hands
and...