A Wake

The sun rose in my bedroom this morning.
I breathed its ions through a metal framework
of dust and particulate matter of the past,
my past,
our past.
You’ve never been here
but you go everywhere with me.

My room lights by gradients,
red to orange to yellow building gloriously
its fake tints and holy similarity,
my dim lids lipping through flip shows
and gumming the meal of morning.
I am still.
I am awake.
I am still awake.
I never slept.

Is sleep death? You haunt me
day and night. Not a dream
or a nightmare, but present
behind the corner of my eye
in the corner of my room
turning my head,
catching my gaze
but never showing me what you see
what you want me to see.
Where are we?


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