They weep. These souls. In bathroom stalls. They walk. They move.
They brood and hover. Hang regret like winter coats.
They reach out to touch. Opening dry mouths in want so crushing.
They live in the unseen. Watch us as we make our beds. Comb our hair. Make love.
They come and go. Mark dust in doorframes.
They know what we fear. Mumble to themselves of our pettiness, our egos, our need for control. How we push each other away. The cowardice. The hollow desperation.
I returned to find a rose with a note on my pillow. It read, "Nothing else matters. Love."