🏥

bedsheet imprints; the only evidence of early morning departures

i resort to constellation dependency

preserving prayers beneath pocketed pillows

hoping you aren't as fleeting as shooting stars.

though silences are woven with unspoken understanding for one another,

yours skewers the chest like a puncture wound-

a dangerous stirring of fake laughs and fallacies

hides the absence of anaesthesia.

sick beds canopied by curtains, in fear of the answer that silhouettes 

could you tell me what resides behind the drapery?

visitors come and go

the same way i dip in and out of your pockets like disposable income

naive with hope like a lamb to the loin

wrists bound tight enough to cut off circulation

tainted by premature decay

dead proof the apple never rots far from it's tree

you can find me pushing up daisies in your epidemical orchard