The walls are bare
And the heart of whateverthisreleationship
Is (...was?) lays inches from death on the tile floor.

Each pulse is exaggerated
And
          intermittent.

It feels profane to place blame on something that's dying.
But Heart is the December freeze creeping through the screen door
And I'm tired of being cold.

The artificial sunlight in this room was blinding.
Fake daylight is a mockery here, and I don't care for pretenses.
Darkness better suits this occasion.

As the filament in the bulb sighed its last breath of light,
My sympathetic ghosts leaned in to hush my tears.
They now sing warm lullabies that feel like contradictions:

How odd that they're the ones here to comfort me
While you're so

                             distant.