You left the room
The vacuum you created
Has me raking at my throat
I frantically try to draw in air
I look around and it seems
I’m the only one struggling
The only one who even noticed
That you’ve gone
My hand reaches out
To your point of egress
And all I feel is bitter cold
Biting at my fingertips
I’m losing consciousness
My outstretched hand falls
My now limp arm lies next to me
The warm impression you left
In the couch cushion
Is felt by the back of my hand
Then the smallest of streams of air
Finds purchase in my throat
Erich Michaels describes himself as “just trying to share the human experience.” He has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, but find himself writing SOPs (lather, rinse, repeat) in order to make a living, which can be detrimental to the creative process. You can find…
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