the smell of my bedroom
the way his hair curls
how my sheets in the morning
are cold
i'm told getting old
is
a little bit dry and morbose, maybe gross
but not scary
if you're to believe them
it's gold.
at least that's what i'm told.
but sunrays look dimmer and
dark shadowly halls in my mind
seem ever easier to find
in the night of my chamber
as i pace on the floor
it can't just be me, the sun sets
differently,
how the brightest of red used to rouse me
from bed,
but now all i feel is the familiar dread
of the cold on the floor
nothing more
it can't just be i, how night swallows my sky
like a snake takes a rabbit head whole
in the pit of my mind is the skin of his face
his flesh taught like a taught trampoline at its base
where's the day?
it never used to be this way
something is different