I woke and sat,
pupils compressed against the window
like black olives;
watching where the sun used to rise.
It's cadence reduced to a vacuum,
skin sunk like eyes
in the socket of the universe
bearing all but a sign:
“even the brightest of stars
need a retreat to grieve”.
I swear you could have knitted
the end of the world
from the venom in those clouds.
So I let these nerves nest
in a bed of sorrow;
as the dawn poured me
back to sleep, indefinitely.