i end every day by promising myself:
tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow
but that hymn becomes a hex
as i become acquainted with the quiet
and my own breath
tomorrow is then cursed as i welcome it in,
and i hang suspended with the moon in the static air of the young morning
the hours run away from me
and the BONG of the clock tower loves to make me aware of their departure
each hour leaves me and takes a bit of my sense with it,
so by 5 a.m. i am unravelled
drowning in lavender pillow spray and the sound
of Harry Styles’ voice reading me a bedtime story
on the Calm app
art by Alcira Hava
