FOR ME

I know not what it is,
An odour, a smell, a perfume
So I'm calling it a habit
That I'm left with in my room

Because I like how it feels
When we conceive touch
So much felt in so little
Sometimes a little too much

This mind hasn't felt though
That feeling any more
The stains on stale bedsheets
Still haunt me where I go

Blank pages cause me guilt
I've got no stories to tell
My ink now dries in the pot
But I am still doing well

I hardly tidy my home
There is no dirt to clean
Cause who knows where you are
What places you have been

This poem is growing longer
Unlike how I let it be
May be it's just attention
From you that I want for me

-K.G.