My eyes are made fools of the other senses, This is now a stranger's house in which I exist. Not the friends' house in which I've lived. And I have thee not and yet I see thee still. As coffee is made downstairs, rich dark smells filling my nostrils, caffeine to keep me awake. Waking in my lonely room. Existing not living, holding onto walls. To keep them from shrinking. Dining room laughter cuts into my brain, a shard of glass, foreign and beautiful Not mine. Sitting in my white box, with white wine cushions in my head, chilled and unfulfilling. The conversation bubbles downstairs, joint of beef clings fat to your contentment. Come let me clutch thee.