maybe rotting in bed can be beautiful sometimes, maybe I'm excusing it.
It’s split in half and leaking, sticking to my bedside stool.
Somehow, I’ve missed the entire process.
It often seems I lay there for days, staring into the amber abyss.
I try to will the tears to come as easily as the salt lamp sweats,
wanting my waste of time to be worthwhile.
Yet the flakes fell as I sat with my mother under crocheted knit
Watching snow sticking to the sill.
And maybe on nights where saltwater spilled onto hardwood,
I found myself far from home,
falling in love again in the heavy heat of august.
It has cracked aloud in spring and september, met with the stillness of empty bed sheets.
Maybe I haven’t missed as much as I lead myself to believe.
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