The bus
was late
This morning
I miss you

I wake up and—
I don’t know why I do.

The air is stale, the ceiling the same.
Light slips through the blinds,
thin and pale,
like it doesn’t want to be here either.

I sit up,
let the silence settle,
wait for something to pull me out of bed.
Nothing does.

But I move anyway.

The floor is cold.
The weight in my chest is heavier than me.
I make my way through the day,
not waiting for anything,
not expecting anything—
but somehow, still hoping.

I check my phone like I’ll find something new.
I step outside like the air will feel different.
I look at the sky like it’ll tell me something
it’s never told me before.

I know better.
I know the message won’t come,
the answer won’t appear,
the door won’t open.

And yet—

I glance at the empty road.
I watch headlights pass like maybe one will stop.
I stare at the horizon like it owes me a miracle.

Nothing happens.

Nothing ever happens.

And still

Somewhere in me,
a flicker, faint as a dying match.
A warmth too small to call real,
too stubborn to go out.

I sigh—
and for a fleeting moment, I feel weightless.

The breath slips from my lungs, taking something heavy with it,
like it could unmake me, erase me, make me forget I was ever here at all.

It washes through my chest, filling me with something close to pleasure—
A release so deep it feels obscene,
an ****** in the ribs,
a warmth that hugs my soul and melts into me like it belongs there.

But the moment is greedy
it takes more than it gives.

And after

it hollows me out.

Leaves an emptiness so sharp it feels like a wound.
Like my breath left and never came back.
Like I traded weight for vacancy,
and that’s worse.

It lingers in my chest
a ghost of something I can’t name.
It hurts.
It aches.
At the same time.

I should probably get up.
Do something.
Fix my life, I suppose.

…Yeah.

I’ll do that.

In a minute.

One step, one shot, one final breath.
I walk through war, I talk to death.
He never speaks, but I still know—
Not yet, not yet. There's more to go.

I have wounded mine own heart,
Yet naught but blood it yields.
Shall I forever dwell apart,
In failure's barren fields?

Must this scar, so crimson-red,
Proclaim me weak and frail?
Or doth my spirit rise instead,
And let my torment sail?

Shall thou remain a failure evermore?
Or rise, and claim the strength thou had before?

I'd rather die young than fade into grey,
A song left unfinished, unsung to this day.

God willed my fate, but I’ve bent to none,
The drink I’ve spilled, the damage is done.

A flicker of a spark from the stone,
Flickers into ashes—let it burn.

Who's knocking at my window?
I hear you while I sleep!
Who dare disturb my own slumber!
Oh, it's only the birds,
The wind and the bare trees.
Still, I resent my bed,
The world wakes us for a reason.

If I am to die any time soon
Please, lord, let it be on a Sunday afternoon;
Let it be 15 degrees with a slight breeze;
Let it be under a soft sky with a purple hue;
Let it put an end to me feeling so blue;
As the aeroplane trails fade out of sight,
Let the blackbird song lull me into night.