X Marks the Spot

I wake up in the middle of the night.
From the window crawl in city lights.

In the corner, I hear a creak.
I know it’s Him, and I don’t dare to speak.

The room is dark, but I see His silhouette.
His torso, that jawline, I’ll never forget.

I can’t see his eyes, but I know they are there.
They consume me, just like the smell of his hair.

But on his face, one part is indeed missing:
The small, smiling lips that I used to be kissing.

Instead of his mouth, there is a red X.
It’s the only clear thing I can see from my bed.

He tries to speak, but he has no mouth to.
So he stands in the corner. That’s all he can do.

In the morning, he will still be there,
As will his eyes and the smell of his hair.

And whatever I try, He’ll always be with me.
He’ll always be with me. Always be with me.

Impaired by the X that I now cling to.
He is the X.

He is you.