Untitled

I wake up late these days
mornings spent staring at the ceiling
after another night of cold feet
(and thoughts of you) rousing (me)

another night of my eyes flicking open
dreams of painting (me) into a corner
of bandits breaking in while I lay helpless
(or you frowning as I catch the bouquet)

my eyes train on the red numbers
willing time to slip on by
effortless as dawn seeping in
small slivers of light through the blinds

I hide under the covers, waiting
or lamenting the loss of (us)
building sand castles of meaning, only
to have the sea of (me) wash them away

how to forget the thoughts of (we)
what a tragedy to be alive
to pare it down to only (I)
oh, that hope would die with goodbye

and here, snapping the pieces apart, breaking
over and over my own small beliefs, I sigh
If this is losing it, then
you don't know what it is to survive