when all the analogies run dry
and there is only the empty space in the bed
and suddenly too much time in the day
(these things are facts):
when all the metaphors refuse to write
a bigger picture than the one
framed of my face,
don't listen to the hissing of the music
and the whisper of traffic in the streets.
you can't come back,
there is only emptiness to be had
and there is no return to full warmth.