6 a.m.s

My mind takes the fourth lap around the same thought, over and over again.

Yet somehow, in a very peculiar, unfamiliar, numinous tethered way, it stops spiraling —

which is strange, really — a kind of stillness where I’m grounded.

If the well breaks and the water surges out,

and I’m left with bits and pieces of myself

that I had harnessed around your mere existence,

just because your soul was tangled with mine —

my 6 a.m.s will always belong to you.

Your voice — one I may have never heard —

unknowingly became my sepulchral favourite sound.

And if it ever fades from my mind,

a pre-written draft of the first chapter in a book

will echo quietly in its place.

And the mountains that once promised lachrymose sweet nothings

will turn to dust

and barren ashes.

My past fades into the horizon,

as the words you say fade from blue to yellow.

The biggest shock that spirals through my spine

is how every bad anticipation I see coming — never does.

My chains from my past don’t rattle anymore.

And for once,

I feel at peace.