A misdialed 4.

The whine of the heater,
sparing the cold rooms fate.
Is a welcome constant,
when guilt keeps me up late.

My demons tend to toss,
and I'm left wanting a turn.
To share their misery.
I wish it were my flesh to burn

The vapor trail of choice,
leaves a pungent stain
I would gladly give my life,
if it meant you were to remain

I've not the power to fix
the things you thought penance.
But I feel that you could,
however, not thru remembrance.

I miss you more now,
than I ever missed you with breath.
That's saying quite a bit.
The excuse for neglect, manifests as death.