Dawn Rumination

There goes the alarm clock,

the disturbing buzz
reminding you of
the nine pills your mind
demands every twelve hours.

Leave your dreams
on the futon.
I know it's exhaustive for
the muscles along
your legs and arms to stretch,
to reach the cup of water
on the nightstand.

You fell for a body of questions.
You leaned against a brittle fence,
waved for a punctured sailboat.

He didn't give you up,
he never took you in.
You asked
an armless man to hold you,
didn't you expect to get
your spine broken?

You dreamed of being a star
in a shrinking outer space,
was the thought of glowing
worth it?

The alarm clock goes again:

"You have to get up.
Don't be late for those pills."

He quelled words,
like a cigarette stub,
in the color of your eyes.

Your face was
his drawing board,
he only rubbed out the smile.

The air is walking
on cold surfaces. Your alarm
clock sleeps before you.
I know it's exhaustive
for the muscle inside your
ribcage to forget.