Some emptiness is not a void, but a presence that refuses to leave.

The bed is wide, yet never warm.
A hand drifts across the sheets,
finding only the cool press of emptiness—
an indentation that has never been filled.

The night unravels without sound,
shadows stretching like unanswered prayers.
Walls do not breathe,
silence does not move closer,
the cold only gathers deeper.

Still, the hand lingers, open, waiting,
as if memory might crawl back into place.
But the bed remains a graveyard of longing—
a place of endless reaching,
where absence lies stitched into the dark.

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