a/n; i have not written poetry (or written much in general) since, like, february. this probably sucks. sorry.

beyond this morning,
sunlight-stained pillows and wrinkled sheets,
lies a stopped heart
the smell of decay
glassy eyes.

beyond this morning,
sweaty skin and swollen lips,
lies an insincere goodbye
a postcard every six months
an empty spot beside me in the bed.

who is the one who took your pulse
and made you bargain for every heartbeat?

who is the one who glued you to a clock
and made you try to slow down time
so you could crawl out alive?

this is not the morning i want to find out.