wilting

your duvet

has pink flowers on it.

 

when i was 5

i made you

buy it like i

could make you

do anything

 

back then,

pink was the only colour i would wear.

 

& now

you’re gone

on a road trip

didn’t say

when you’d be

back again &

i was too busy

to care.

 

& the 2:08p.m.

sunlight falls

through the window & dust

settles in my lungs on the

bedside table on the

maple tree dust the

last memory i have

of you is dust dead skin.

 

the sky

is getting bluer &

the air is

getting warmer

but it doesn’t help it just

makes it better.

 

i breathe.

 

i still have your old wrapping paper but i never ask for presents anymore–

 

just sleep.

 

quietly

the dust

filters

through the

air.

 

quietly

you closed

the door

behind you & it

didn’t feel like war.

 

just

exhaustion.

 

which is

90% of

what we are.

 

you acted

like there

was enough

for everyone.

 

i’ll never

understand that.

 

we spent

all of today

fighting

over the last

can of artichokes knowing

it couldn’t save us

but just wanting

to feel a little better.

 

because it

felt like the

apocalypse.

 

some days

it still does.

 

it’s not hell.

 

but sometimes

i still feel like

i’m starving.

 

& more often than not i wonder what’s right and wrong.

 

quietly

between keystrokes

i fall.

 

more often than not i think one of us has to.

 

it won’t last,

though.

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