He lay there, buried under percale, suffocating,
praying for darkness to seep into his eyes—to escape
one listless day and awaken into the next,
but the night was most cruel when it was peaceful.
The heavy breaths beside him formed tendrils
around his feckless throat and wrists,
shackling him to the stranger who no longer noticed
how desperately he wished they were both alive.
Was he a coward not to speak it? To not mention that
he missed how they would stave off sleep and
kiss each other deeply? To not question why
she only looked at him now, and not through him anymore?
With each passing moment, the chasm grew wider.
She lay there, perhaps unbeknownst, or worse, indifferent,
and he lied then, telling himself she would see him again, someday.
So he stared into blue fog, waiting for oblivion and in it.