It’s not out of hope, I just forget.
Why are my dreams so clueless?
As if the mail with news hasn’t reached there yet.
If only my dreams knew too,
That Sunday mornings in bed are no longer lazy,
Waking up wouldn’t be so hard.
Grief administered in gentle doses 24-7,
Is better than being punched in the guts every morning.
There are two pillows still.
And your bolster, although I hated it on some nights.
I haven’t changed the sheets yet,
I don’t know when I will.
Maybe I won’t.