i traced your form on my sheets last night and sang your empty space to sleep with a pillow held fast to my chest as tightly as i could to keep my ribs from unhinging, my dear, my heart is a music box dancer waiting to spin in place upon the mirror of my breast, if her spring were a bit more loose from use i might not find her pressing so distressing. i said, "your face is engraved on a porcelain plate in the back of my eyelids, and everytime i try to sleep without you, a useless image stares right back," and you said, with a sigh, through heavy panting, "there's no need for romance now, we've split apart and this is our last goodbye, so please just appease yourself." and i did my best to try.