Cold glass

Warm seat

Toes numb

The beautiful moon glares at me

Piercing lights from the roads leaving impressions on my zoned stare

Further from where we want to be

But we're almost there

The only reason this is home is cuz your here.

a cluttered room halfway through the cleaning process

heater up too high to combat the feeling of cold you get from looking outside

clothes strewn everywhere and books crowding every shelf

poetry magazines stacked high and a volume of Shakespeare opened to Cleopatra's death

Poe is atop a stack of half-forgotten sketchbooks

scripts, from theatre, Broadway and movies are in a tilted mountain which will no doubt erupt the moment I leave the room

without a dressed all my clothes are stuffed in shoe boxes and stacked around the room

nothing here is permanent except the royal purple of the walls and ceiling

a spiderweb of Christmas lights illuminate the premises and I am content surrounded by my life

my uncle sits irritated in a rocking chair, blushing angrily because I can't make it to his daughters recital.

my cousin obliviously prancing around singing songs of Christmas and ignoring the nagging for her to practice one more time.

a lonely piano begging to be played by a real musician who could do it justice.

my grandparents, awkwardly cleaning up the mess of dishes and food scraps, tuning out my uncles complaints.

unlit lamps and too many Christmas decorations, giving the place a sad holiday aura.

Darkness everywhere, no escaping it either when I close my eyes.

The faint sound of violins coming from the stereo speakers in an attempt to combat my loneliness but only perpetuating my busy mind. Room: missing his presence. Bed: not quite as warm as it used to be. I've even begun sleeping with his stuffed animals. No sleep here.