BB-M

Morning comes in widow's weeds while gloom settles to the bottom of my cup, begging to be stirred, wondering why my chin has fallen over the rim and how come my feet take forever to shuffle over floorboards and dust. I am vacant, worn down - just this mud-bare rug, heels bleeding gray, and so tired I forgot how to say your name or the color of the walls when I turn out the lights. It is just the pain of you settling in again with leftover Sunday evening.

Morning comes in widow's weeds while gloom settles to the bottom of my cup, begging to be stirred, wondering why my chin has fallen over the rim and how come my feet take forever to shuffle over floorboards and dust. I am vacant, worn down - just this mud-bare rug, heels bleeding gray, and so tired I forgot how to say your name or the color of the walls when I turn out the lights. It is just the pain of you settling in again with leftover Sunday evening.