i've been sleeping diagonally in my bed for weeks now, next to me a book, pen and paper, my computer. i count sheep until i move on to other things, the last voicemail, email, text; the last invitation, sleepover, compliment; the streets that take me from here to there and back; the paints i need to buy; all the things beyond my control and ways to say good-bye.

this timing being off is standard practice: the flower that blooms to soon only to succumb to the late winter frost, there are those premature things that with love and care flourish, but i'm yet to see that in this life.

my inhales gets caught in my chest before exhale, squashed beneath the seeming weight of pallets resting on my chest. this weight is getting old, but it hangs around like stale cigarette air seeping into fabrics.

and i've read this poetry before.