Most Days

The pavement tears at

the distant soft of clouds

scratching what’s left.

-

The overgrown grass

seems to swallow me whole

still lingering in

-

my old thoughts of you.

The ground is still shrinking,

lampposts still blinking

-

beneath the sun’s glow.

The waves never stop crashing,

quiet harassment.

-

The pen left on the

desk, still leaking. Speaking

sweet nothings.

-

The gentle glow of

wrinkled bedsheets, the blood

still sticks tightly.

-

The water, flowing

freely, gathers at my feet

whispering that it

-

may take me to you.

I follow it hypnotised,

searching for clues.