Callling the Cards

It's six in the morning. No one's there. Day. Night. It's still decidiing. Summer. Fall. It isn't sure. Neither am I.

The walls were grinning with rusty, old lips. Sweet croissants vexing at the shape of my kiss. No teeth. Biting down soft again. It's become so easy to just sit. And do nothing.

Falling apart at every sigh. Coming together in those meanwhiles.

In the last few drops. The most inocuous phase of the disease. I see the futility in trying to hold on. To how it feels. Or did before.

Finger on the switch.

The bulb is dead.

Life always has a wager. It falls on me to call its bluff.