Arnika

I claw at the ragged edges of sleep,
curled up in a ball on the cast-off loveseat
at the end of my bed,
while you sleep soundly, legs akimbo,
on the mattress.

What conversation is there to be had?
What rest is there to gain?

I loved until my lungs were bruised.
I loved until my blood ran clear.

I’ve nothing left.
I’ve nothing left.

---

kfw 2023