Come day’s end, I am nothing but a pile of dirty clothes,

A nest of slough,

Molted skin.

And I crawl into my unmade bed

To slip into a dead slumber

From which I wish I wouldn’t wake,

But my dreams center around tiny hauntings,

whispering your name in a voice that sounds like all of my mistakes.

So, I stir awake and daze away the days.