I run, I cry, I call your name. My exhaustion is nothing compared to this suffocating ache. Your ashtray still rests on the table. The house you returned to every day still carries your scent in every corner. Separation is the most disgusting thing. I hate looking at you in this cold room, surrounded by unfamiliar faces trying to pull another breath back into your lungs. Their failure. The smell of blood. All of it is nonsense.