the hours pass like minutes now
I collect them under the covers
as their pressing persistence
deafens with each dream.
my mother enters the room
in an effort to wake me
from the dead, to try and
mend the broken bones
you yourself left.
why does she have
to clean up your mess?
my own guilt concretes
my chest, paralyzing me further.
to hear my mother’s concern,
her worry. but I have felt
this heartbreak many times
over. your fracture lines are
all over my body, some are
just easier to hide than others.
I stay in bed and dream
of how you stayed. of how
you chose me. back to
Sunday mornings under covers,
our smiles visible by the gray-lit
sky. I can still feel you skin
running beneath my fingertips.
so I stay in my bed. and that
should be none of your concern,
it’s the only way I know
to survive knowing you.