for Red_Pandi; i'm so sorry i ended up taking down the poetry book you commented so much on; your words have helped me on the hardest days, so thank you!!
• • •
it's sometime between
too late and too early;
the digital numbers on
the clock are counting
every second i have less
to live; the sky is still
dark and i can't see the
stars in the city; man
has his own stars, now —
fluorescent supermarket
lights and scented candles
glowing in dark apartments;
what use are the dead stars
in the sky when those on
earth are brighter?
the late-night early-morning
sky is dark and the shadows
press against the window
so i draw the blinds and
watch time run on by my
bed; how many more hours
will i still have? — i am what
the advertisements call
young but i don't feel like it;
i have been laying here in
this nest of rumpled sheets
and exhaustion like oxygen
in the air; every breath i draw
weighs on my lungs and
my heart is shrinking under
the pressure; how long till
nothing is left?
time is suspended here and
i carve a fossil into my
mattress, something to
remember me by; i watch
the sky lighten after a
century — the world
outside is waking and i
should be too, but my
bones have sunk into this
quicksand grave and every
move i make buries me
deeper; will the world
miss me? — perhaps
future archaeologists will
immortalize me in plaster
casts when they discover
this flesh-and-exhaustion
skeleton of mine; at least
then i will have
left something behind;
is it considered existing
if all i am is a cycle of
determined weariness?
(i hope it is, or
i will not have existed
at all.)
YOU ARE READING
PILLOW THOUGHTS
Poetrythoughts from when: 1. the sky is an ocean 2. the world is kept outside your window 3. the stars are at your feet
