4am

slipping on the ice walking home from the frat

I stare at the sky and realize why God is gone

not dead just absent from the scene of a crime He

perpetrated my demise at the hands of a 

New England winter and a boy with no name

who I labeled a fleeting object and labeled me 

an empty vacuum

incapable of being filled by what is given to me

I lie listless on hard packed snow and wonder

if my impact made any impression at all or

is my one role to swap spit in exchange for 

a warm bed and warmer beer have I forgotten

who I am or did I ever know and would God

please tell me

my room is full of empty things like me so

why go back and why not stay and watch

the stars dance in the sky as the bass still

echoes in my ears I am so tired of

movement mistaken for presence I used to

twinkle with the knowledge of who I am before

I lost her

Savannah S. Miller (she/her) is a queer and disabled writer across genre and form. Her work has been published or is forthcoming with the Amsterdam Review, Rappahannock Review, Modern Language Studies, Watershed Review, and others. She is the author of the poetry collection Route 460 (Red Rook Press). Read more at savannahsmiller.com.