You were a coffee stain on the bedside table.
Second hand smoke, a hand through hair, half asleep.
You were the slow dance, the lilies,
a constant, disrupting train of thought.
Loud but gentle.
A rocking carriage through miles of uncertainty.
You were comfort and euphoria.
And the space you left, I filled with myself.
I was the burning room,
The early morning rays through a stained-glass window.
Books, and softness, and doubt, still afraid of fraying in the night.
I was the imbalance, the calm within the tempest.
The rubble of walls. A passenger through the triumphs, a pull through the lows.
I was air, and yet I had none.
Now, I make my own light.