The silence can be deafening inside:
Cliche, I know, but accurate enough.
An empty room is difficult to hide,
Even if you fill it up with stuff.
The hours alter in their separate spheres
And go all willy-nilly at a pace
I can't predict; a moment feels like years,
(And it feels years since I last saw your face),
But then an hour goes by who knows where.
The room is bright, the music's on, yet all
The busyness makes insubstantial air,
And I am in a void, about to fall.
When you are back, or I am there, there'll be
A lot more of my past solidity.
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