I wake, it’s quarter to eight,
from sleep, still wet with heartache,
crack the window, feel the quake of traffic.
Light up a cigarette, exhale,
and gaze as the smoke sails
around the bedposts, liquid, pale, translucent.

And I don’t know if the world hears me calling now
in hopes that my voice will catch it falling, somehow

When I say
I know the world’s abusing
but my life’s more confusing
in this battle that I am losing with my head.
On and off, fight after fight
until I switch off the light,
though in the dark, I feel the bite of my own winter.

And I don’t know if the world hears me calling then
in hopes that its light will catch me falling again

And all these things I’m cherishing are crumbling in my hands
when my whole world is perishing and I’m falling down again
and crumbling too. When everything’s in color, all I see is blue.

I wake, it’s quarter to eight
from a sleep that will not break.
I tell myself, Get up for God’s sake, it’s day outside.
But here, the morning won’t rejoice
when I can’t force my own choice
to smile when my eyes are moist
and I can still hear my voice muffled inside, muffled inside, inside.