every place on Earth empty of you
but where you are–
oh fireless, vacant hills at night,
which were my comfort,
why do they no longer glow nostalgically,
but only whir relentlessly
into dust and lostness?
navy sky, starless blue
like the sadness of Los Angeles:
a black hole: full of everything,
only attractive by its mystery,
which is, in the end, its nothingness.
I am aching with the absence of true home:
the arms of love…
everywhere in the world is empty of you,
gray without your presence,
until I fly homeward once again.