I wake up each morning with dirt beneath my fingernails
And wonder what I was digging out of
Entombed in the night, when the balm of sleep failed.

Was I dragged below the way you were,
With your red lips and wild eyes?
Was I silent beside you, newly interred,
And clawed my way back into life?

It would not be the first time.
It would not be the second, either.
That I awoke to find death's grime
Caked upon my trembling hands.

Yet I rest easy, despite all that.
I see the evidence it leaves,
And yet my only thought is that
I should likely be relieved...