Won’t Quiet
In my fireplace there’s more
whimpering
than roaring.
In my glass
whiskey rocks
are weeping.
The bags beneath my eyes
are black
and waxy.
The gray soup inside my skull
is nearly boiling.
Through my window
the snow falling
is white noise
screeching.
The call of the void
your whisper in my ear
sends my skin crawling off
and my stomach sinks
like a stone
when you speak
your icy lies.
I can shrug off
the call of the void.
I think you’ll need to drag me.