I'll be here,
whatever "here" means...

Am I sick of life
or sick of myself...

drifting
with no destination in mind...

and it all comes back
when red and blue flash...

I have accepted you,
not as an inglorious extension...

Just shy of
two weeks...

[Should I even share this?]
I am able to distract myself...

I wish there wasn't this
confusion...

Here's a poem to you,
the boy with the tousled hair...

This ache hasn't dissipated in 44 days.
Its consistency has shifted, immigrated...

one swallow
is all it could take...

I wake up in a room different than
my own, a place I once called home...