THE EARLY BURN

 

THE EARLY BURN

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The Jolt of Dawn

Alarms pierce the haze of dreams,

a shrill chorus yanking me upright—

their blare a cruel shepherd,

herding me from the soft pasture of sleep.

Feet stumble, heavy with reluctance,

carrying me from tangled sheets

to the bathroom’s stark light,

where the shower waits,

its steam rising to scrub away

last night’s slumber—

a residue of peace

that clings like damp fog,

slipping through my grasp

as the day’s weight settles in.

Your Absence Echoes

You’re long gone by now,

slipped out into the pre-dawn chill,

chasing another manic Monday—

your shadow a ghost

in the half-lit room,

your scent fading

from the pillow’s crease.

I picture you out there,

bracing against the wind,

coffee in hand,

eyes fixed on some horizon

I can’t reach.

The space you left

yawns wide,

a quiet ache

that hums beneath

the water’s steady drum.

The Early Burn

It’s too goddamn early for this—

anxiety curling like smoke,

too soon to wrestle thoughts

into straight lines,

too raw to douse

the anger boiling up,

a kettle left too long

on a flame I didn’t light.

The clock glares,

its hands accusing,

each tick a jab

at the fragile shell

I’ve barely pieced together.

I splash cold water,

hoping it cools

the simmer in my veins,

but it only sharpens

the edge of this unrest.

Tactless Wounds

You flaunt it, don’t you—

that tactless swagger,

words flung like stones,

cracking the brittle frame

of whatever “us” still stands.

Belittling it—

this thing we built,

or thought we did—

with every careless shrug,

every dismissive glance.

What does it mean anymore,

this “us”?

A word worn thin,

frayed at the seams,

unraveling in the space

between your leaving

and my staying,

a knot I can’t untie

nor bear to tighten.

Weary of the Game

I’m getting too old for this,

for the indecision that gnaws—

a pendulum swinging

between stay and go,

love and let loose.

The mornings pile up,

each one heavier,

laden with things

I don’t deserve—

this anger I didn’t ask for,

this doubt I shouldn’t have

to wrestle into sense.

I’ve no right to this burden,

no claim to the chaos

you scatter behind,

yet here I am,

scrubbing at the stains

of a fight

I never chose.

The Unseen Horizon

The shower runs cold now,

steam giving way to clarity,

and I stand dripping,

staring at the tiles

where answers won’t form.

You’re out there,

facing your day,

while I’m here,

rooted in the aftermath—

too tired to chase,

too stubborn to fold.

The alarms will rise again,

dragging me from dreams

to this same hollow dance,

and I’ll wonder

how long I can carry

the weight of your gone

before I lay it down

and walk into