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My heart feels heavy,
 like I don’t know how long I can live like this for.
There’s a poison in my ears in the form of wish you were here.
An empty chair across the table,
  and an empty half of the bed.
My portrait pillow, trapped by my leg,
  misses its painted face,
I dream of looking up and seeing your chest,
    empty and calling for my resting head.
And I don’t want to do anything.
No, everything is too exhausting.
When I’m moving with a heart twice the size,
   and your words bouncing behind my tired eyes.
“Honey, you bring  out the smiths in me.”