63

i am dreadfully worried about you.
you're wearing off, getting tired. i noticed of late you’re drained of your pretty.

you tell me it's not unlike anything you've seen, like these sunsets in your eyes.
but it shouldn't be justified that way.
you haven't broken each and every bone.

while admittedly, this whole thing brings me a small comfort
like a baby sparrow (a bird so small that can inch through all these ripped open holes of my body)
into my disappointment of a life.
it makes me dry through my swollen throat.

what else can i do for you? i can't change anything.
nothing is mine to change.
but these nights, when the hours seem to get shorter,
when we're sleeping really late,
i'll slip inside this mold of playing shadows
and pray for you to to end this battle in your head.