i.
mornings are stuttering things.
there’s the sun, slow and creeping as it pulls up;
there’s the quiet, subtle and soft enough to be notable;
and then there’s you, with heavy bones and that sinking feeling.

the first moments are such unsure things—
where are you, exactly?  is the skin you’re in your own today?
your memory is perfect, your mind is not;
everything is hazy and spinning, and you have to orient yourself.
this is the routine.

you never know whether you’ll wake up and be yourself.
but the sun always rises.

ii.
he is so—
fuck, he is so infuriating, that’s what he is.
he doesn’t know when to shut his mouth,
doesn’t care for seeing how high the risk is.
he’s a liar and a fool.
he feels like war,
(and he tastes like eden.)

he’d walk through hell and back for you, you know?
he’d see it burning, maybe he even set the fire,
and he’d know it would hurt.  how many times has he been burned?
you’ve seen his scars, he’s lived through the memory of them,
and he’d still walk straight through the flame for you.
he is reliable.  a constant.  he won’t change;
he is always going to be a problem.

because you would do the same for him.

iii.
endings are something you are familiar with.
you’ve witnessed enough of them,
caused enough of them,
come close to having enough of them.
life is so fickle, so fragile.

a hammer hits a mirror, and the glass warps before it shatters.
those last moments are haunting, lilted.
like you— casually cruel.
it’s the shake and the shudder, the final plea.
the last of life is unforgivingly honest.
death is a stuttering thing.