Good morning.
Good morning.

With all this suffocating darkness,
I would have thought it midnight;
I would have, if not for the small, faint, chirping of the early day bird songs,
that are seeping through the leaking windowpanes of my bedroom.

In the air, hangs the dormant smell of last night’s whiskey, worn leather, and fresh coffee grounds.

There’s something wicked lurking through my house today, filling in the corners and climbing up the walls.

I can hear it like radio static, scraping the insides of my skull.
Almost like nails down a blackboard, it leaves my brain clutching to the darkness.

I want to crawl back under those blankets and forget what I must do, but responsibility is screaming for me to move.

I still can’t see anything, there is a gray light touching the edges of my peripheral vision now.

I’ve never been good at gray scale, my everything is always so black and white.

Always one or the other but never both, not until last night.

Last night when I tried to fold myself like a napkin in your lap, after years of laying wrinkled.

I remember the night i met you.We danced, delicately. You held me like a wine glass, with slow, practiced hands.

Now, years later, all that is left of us are dirty clothes piled on the floor, shattered glass ware and your almost full ashtray.

You stormed out and haven’t come back once. But I’m still waiting here, under these covers, hoping that chirping I hear, will morph into slow, practiced footsteps coming back to me.

The smell of coffee, old worn out leather and stale whiskey, coats my lungs. Just like a dormant, wicked, shadow, waiting to climb into the corners of me; the ones you, left empty.

Good morning.
No, good night.