when sunrise is still a dream

The night hosts a sea of darkness as we hide in the pause of our prolonged purgatory. Resting place of the weary. Haunting grounds of waiting souls.

"Are you cold?", you ask, straining to sit closer.

"Not at all," I whisper knowing no sound will bridge the barren space around you.

(It must have been so hard for you. We were so unhappy. )
Tears course down your soft cheeks. What can I do but hold you?

"I'm happy. I've always been so happy."

And the night watches, cradling my lies, forgiving me my inconsistencies.

why mornings are so cruel

day 1

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It has begun. And he watched the steam, rising from his still warm coffee, brew war.

"Did I get the eggs right?"
A nod of acknowledgement with the clatter of spoon and fork.

٭

day 2

The whisper of a name yanks him from a cocoon of dreamlessness. Palpitations. Voiceless cursing. Humidity of new day. And only a dim awareness of droplets of sweat persisting, forming, nagging and winning.

"Hush now. You've just been dreaming."

A hand running through bedraggled hair with the resounding drop of a head on the pillow.

٭

day 3

There is nothing but his eyes flutter open. Sleep chased away. Weight. And there is nothing more painful than having to peel off covers wrapped around, stuck tight to the skin.

“It’s there today.”

Not even a stare with the rustle of the broadsheet’s pages to the obituaries.

٭

day 4

He is awake and watches dawn shatter through the blinds, conquering the empty room. Troubled breathing. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. And he waits.

“Are you ready?”

A black pin placed over his heart with the assent of silence.

٭

day 5

He woke up. Frying pans. Plates. Egg. Rice. It will continue. And he watched the steam rising from his still warm coffee brew war.

first meetings

In the beginning, there was only the spark of something, barely an inkling of familiarity, and only a sense of a rather awkward hesitation. There never arose a need to act. For action would, in its typically vulgar manner, destroy the anticipation cleverly hidden in our brief and tight-lipped encounters.

Polite conversation. A brief nod. Perhaps a small smile every now and again. A clever story about common friends if luck allowed. Supressed glances. The fanning of cheeks that have become much too affected. Pleasantries. An indescribable attraction to describing the weather. And the widening gap that lingers in between.

Because at the very start of everything, there is only the turning over of possibilities in the presence of famished silence.