On misty October mornings
I rub sleep from tired eyes.
Expect to feel your mouth
graze mine with rigid, sweet
lips. But after cat backed stretches
and echoed groans, I’m still alone.
Cold feet, cold hands that used
to have a home between your skin.
Turning, blazing, resting leaves await
their final breaths before November
frosts swallow them whole. Clocks
are chiming, 6 am. I lay restless
in white. The monsters under my bed
moved out and now they’re in
my head. Peeling back layers
and crawling inside, sinking teeth
and crescent claws. They gnaw
at the gray matter and dictate
all my dreams. Puppet strings.
Vivid static murmurs color through
the night. I wake up to find snow.