The bed is still blue,
Unchanged by soft snores from the other side
And rain at the window earworms its arrhythmic pitter-patter into my half-asleep mind
Until I cannot sleep.
Rain, my third love, and last;
Now I am thankful for the walls despite their gray sadness,
But they shroud only from the water because the overcast sky is replicated even inside.
Green moss has found the balcony
While the leaves are flayed till orange,
The inside is immune to change
And the transition has just passed it by,
Allowing it to remain like a curtain of smoke,
Only there is no bottom to crawl under.
I feel the urge to fight it, one that flared irrepressibly years ago, to revolt.
But I remember “revolt” comes from “revolution”:
A whole three hundred and sixty degrees, point X to X
Where treasure was never found, for my heart did not belong there.
Caught in semantics, convinced of my own logic or fallacy,
I curl up in frustration on my blue bed, defeated of the unbearableness,
Closing my eyes for the last time.