sometimes i feel so alone, i lay on my bed and stare up at the ceiling fan as it spins, and spins, and spins, and spins, it’s cold air brushing the hairs on my arms, now my head is going around, and around, and around, and around, and it won’t stop, i feel over to his empty space, and the hairs on my arms stand at attention, what’s the point of a double bed when you’re the only one there?, left to hug the reminiscence of nothing, just you and the loneliness of loneliness, and this empty feeling that arises again, and again, and again, and again, and that coldness that brushed your arms, gooseflesh.