In the morning,
will it be like yesterday?
How the hours,
drain love,
when all we want,
is the best for each other.
We grew selfish,
when we couldn’t find the words,
and became abrupt,
when we couldn’t read each other.
My stamina waned,
your resilience drained,
we held onto our past,
like a mother to her child.
Today, I’m done,
emotions weigh heavy,
so I sleep –
hopeful that in the morning,
it will be like yesterday.
You are who I write for,
who I think of,
who I compare to,
when I write.
You are the audience,
the critic,
and the protagonist
in my stories.
You are found,
when meaning is buried,
and when truth
is elusive.
You are my thoughts epiphany,
the kiss in my passion,
the seducation in my eyes,
and the guilt in my stomach.
You are the ink in my pen,
the keys on my keyboard,
and the punctuation
in my grammar.
You are the author,
the director,
the producer,
and I am the actor
playing your part.
Lewis Walddren 