as the moon modestly peaks through the cracks in your blinds, your feet pitter patter on the ground
like raindrops on rooftops,
causing the feeble wooden floor to moan like a ******, never been touched.
you climb into your bed,
missing its frame like you never thought you'd miss him,
and you pull the blanket over your head.
it's harder to breathe this way, impossible to read this way, but you will always stay this way.
you used to think if an intruder crept into your bedroom, you'd be safer this way.
now the blankets prevent you from tracing the spot where his head should lie,
like the blankets are guarding you from the thoughts of him,
yet every small, warm breath you take reminds you of the way he coughed all the time.
maybe he spent too much time under covers as well.
your alarm will ring in two hours, as if you have anywhere to be.
your thoughts live in a funeral home, its bed a casket.
you used to sleep with less pillows - one became four, four became more
surrounding yourself with more while you look like less.
your fridge seldom opened, your room never left.
friends wonder if they should check and make sure you're still alive,
but never do.
you painted a picture the other day with your sister,
you let the paint drip like tears.
you discard old objects of importance like you discarded the thought that he was a constant.
the only thing unchanging is the tick of a clock,
and time means nothing when it's always mo(u)rning.
every day you watch the sun claw for the east, but it always falls for the west.
rainbows don't mean much anymore, because the future is in black and white.
the past was a coloring book, and sometimes he left different hued bruises on your cheek.
the memories of the secret go locked away in an attic to collect dust and lose importance,
yet the key lives in his pocket.