It’s the morning.
They say that whatever happened the day before
goes away the moment you wake up;
it is a new day
and a fresh start.
But I don’t feel elated or new or fresh. I feel heavy.
Just as she had rolled onto the bed
after a day’s work,
so I carried her burden of fatigue even in her absence.
The newspaper is open
and my lungs are choking.
I consume a balanced breakfast of daily news,
stabbings, war, gas prices, horoscopes,
and suddenly I am too full for any more.
The coffee is brewed and the timer has gone off,
but I am not ready to delve into this world I just read about.
Even if every morning were new,
what kind of new is it if every morning a different newspaper
filled with the same violence, greed, and confusion
is mass produced to a starving audience?
If I cannot wake up to you,
then the world is not something I want to wake up to.
I stare at the coffee resting an arm reach away
and I wonder if it is needed only to numb the pain
and to dull the fear of tomorrow.
I guess I’ll always feel heavy and I’ll always be hungry,
because news is not the most filling food,
and because I can never feel fresh or new,
any morning that I don’t have you.