dawn's rays peek like a ******
through my blinds, refracting
kaleidoscopic sunlight
through the window pane.
the succulents on the sill
reach out, needy,
craving the kiss
of photosynthesis.
motes of dust float
melancholic. detritus
pirouettes off the ceiling fan—
whispering languidly,
dancing as i stare blankly
at the space in bed
next to me. i'm sick
to death of mourning
every morning, wishing
i didn't wake up.