dear you

The night is young. The clock has not even hit 7 pm,

but I vouch it feels like 11 pm.

As I try and pack, you're in the back of my mind.

Burning my scull and my thoughts.

Will you ever leave?

Do I want you to leave? Well. No. I don't.

I just wish things were different.

Less abstract and more solid.

I'd give anything for that.