the gentle slope of a sleeping shoulder
rising and falling in time
with breath
from this beating
heart-drum human.
this is sorrow
unmasked and naked,
unclaimed and vulnerable.
dreaming is for the dead.
sharp, violent reminders
of what being alive/awake should have been,
what could have been.
you follow me around like a sad ghost,
tears dripping from your sallow cheekbones,
only shaking your head as a response
to my pathetic pleas
for company.
