miserable postcards

When I'm gone
there will be silence
but right now
there is noise
there will be no dreams
no music, no laughter
so
apart from the noise
I'm not really here
apart from the noise
there is nothing--
just an aching, fetid wound
that I call my life

sorry for
all of the miserable postcards
sorry for
forcing so many tears
if I knew I'd end up this way
I never would have begun a life with you

what are dreams
to a sleep-deprived man?
what is a handout and a smile
to a haggard beggar?
what is a fix
to a junkie?
it's what you are to me.