In Morning, mourning seems less appropriate: Crusty eyes feel unfit for tears; Warm, smooth sheets comfort quivering skin; And early daylight looks more white than gold.
As a Day moves forward, And comfort guesses change, Uncertainty slips through the cracks in the clouds; Exchanged words buy only time; And battles feel lost.
Until Nighttime arrives, And grasps feverishly at everything it can smell: The feeblest fears, the longest lies; Stars, fallen from the pitch night sky. And ripples in your cold sheets.