The morning could burn for all I care. Let the toast char to a crumble; I won’t manage to get out of the bed to save it. And who will save me from these white walls and endless pages stuck together — I can’t finger them apart.
Do you remember that morning with our orange sun? My window bleeds bursts of yellow and orange, but never you.
The dayspring arises, and I’m stuck mourning. I butter the black and swallow the bread as punishment for eating up my day. If the morning loved me, it would stay.
I’ve lost so many versions of heaven. I can’t get it right.
Now the dying gleam spills from my room, and it all just kind of feels too late.