I don't even know if you could call this a poem...

I'm no good at writing, I promise.
But it seems the only way to breathe at times.
I feel sick,
all the time.
Not like a flu, but this feeling.
It weaves in and out of my veins.
Sometimes, coffee helps. I try that quite frequently.
Sometimes, crying helps. I do that a lot, too.
The feeling...it's emptiness.
I've only known it since you left.
October 21st, was the day it started to grow.
I miss you.