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Waking Song

Each missed alarm is morning.

I unsleep. I undream. I unlie myself out of bed.

In the hall, I wait & wait. Two minutes to clean out my teeth.

Another revolution of the clock. My teeth are well-rooted.

I miss not knowing whether they are about to fall.

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The cold this morning’s as slow as death.

In the night, I dreamt of no air.

The absence of something necessarily proves its presence.

I can’t remember who said that. I’m forgetting all sorts of things lately.

Suffocation. My smoke-hands clawed at vacuum, then shoved the emptiness down my throat. I read once that the best liars aren’t aware of their deception. Doesn’t make it any more real.

When I couldn’t live anymore, I woke up. Isn’t that how the world works. Each turn of the landscape is a waking. In my head, a voice says: and in all change, there is a necessary death involved. It’s a man’s voice, a professor’s, dull and toneless.

I died gasping and the blanket is wrapped around my head. I shove it out of the way. Gulp the cold air down. My lungs remember how to breathe. I sit there. Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. I think of nothing. When I look at the time again, an hour has passed.

I name the day ruined & ruin it.

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Photo by Abhay Vyas on Unsplash

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