It Hurts to Be Awake

My bed is more than a pile of rumpled sheets,
a supple place where I seek answers from sleep,
met merely with the sounds of a drifting home
as the sky rains more dust but never affection.

Some days I do not know if I’m wrong or right,
I am cautious in her presence, in her danger.
Where she seeps into the corners of my mind
to remind me of my silent, cruel dissolution.

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