Plum colored roar,

And I swore I could see,

The tangerines of your cheeks in cardboard,

And your teeth like tambourines shaking and chafing against your tongue.

A whole room of beds,

But I’ve had enough sleep for a lifetime like mine.

My temples are stone smooth from pillow-wear,

A cracked once-holy church of wear and tear.

Is it nighttime yet?

Who’s to say I’m not already dead?

Flowers, candles, thick carpet — you’ve mourned me already,

But blooming weeds will wilt and bleed.

Could we agree to stop, together, already?

I suppose I could,

Take the ellipses, put on a cleaner shirt.