July 6, 2011
I hate those days where holding my breath becomes more comfortable than breathing
And all the blood in my veins seems to be flowing slower than usual.
My heart is worn out and misused, but not yet old.
These days, I seem to be sleeping less and less,
Fighting sleep at night and pleading to wake up later,
But the sun
And this heartache bid me out of bed,
Out of the safety of my dreams.
“for what?” I ask.
Just another day worrying
and knowing
that you’re going to leave.

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