with the shades drawn and
allowing just glimmers of sunlit
reflections of an everlasting green
that seeps its way onto walls
well known and forgotten,
breaths escape from lips
which are too tired for anything or anyone.
In between the covers
there is a corpse,
or soon to be at least,
and as a mind winds down to moments
captured and preserved
in formaldehyde filled jars
stacked around the room,
the realization strikes
that these memories
just don't taste the way they used to,
a realization made
as this bed which was
kinder to passions untold
becomes a coffin
once the covers wrap around
to keep and swallow whole
in the warmth and knowledge
of being dead to the world.
Dead to SourGirl.
