Laying on the bed
In the master bedroom
While you’re sitting on the chair

And I subtly reach out my hand
To see if you’ll notice it
And spark an idea for you
To grab it and hold

I stretch and stretch
Trying to get comfy

But you know, in the moment
It wouldn’t have made me
More comfortable
Than to have you with me

Gone is the familiar scent
Of sheets and shirts

Like we’re on a lift
On a mountain pass
Taking in the sights
And air so

Every prickle on the arms
Those goosebumps
That say “Hi!” to the cold
Feeling of trying to find
A spot more comfortable

Cheery on the chair
You don’t betray a word
Of accepted despair

It’s the ashtray
Still smoking in the corner
Underneath a lamp
That I thought went out
Hours ago

Your infinity scarf
Does just enough
To overwhelm most other senses

But I can seem to finally get
In these warm sheets

Warm by your gore
As a spiked bat
Sticks forlornly
From your forehead
And nasty gashes
By four inch galvanized
Steel nails
As they twist and claw
Into your skull
Leak your life
And stain the blankets

I have you with me

Your warm scent
Like a coat in winter
I can trace your wrist
And kiss your cheek

I remember the tea
You left on the end table
For me
In the rosy white alcove

You’re limp
And crying blood
Still in shock
From your mouth
Like a trickling river
Styx sweeping the
Lost and tortured,
Unwilling souls away

The tv is on
And perhaps you
Are watching
But I am tired

And I’m trying
To get comfy
In this bed,
Tossing and turning

Getting ever more damp
With your sap
As I wake up every
Five minutes
Rolling around
And changing position
Blinking in the lights
And not turning them off

Looking at the spiked bat
A wooden slugger
Sticking from a
Snapped splat
Of viscera seeping
From a leaking
Wound where your
Death spat
Wound up tight
On the chair
And stiff sat

It’s chilly in here
With the window open
If you’re not under
Some covers

Like that of night
In early hours

And the things in your skin
That tunneled and burrowed
Rise to the surface to be
Set free from their coils
A fungus of all sorts
To umbrella out
And release dread
In decay

I can hear a hearse
Circling the house
Having a time of
Booming business

Its tires hiss
In witness
Through the windows
Of bone breakage
And steel nail

Beneath the ashtray
In drawers of a dresser
Are plastic bags
And organs teeming
With viscous fluid

Sun’s coming up
And I haven’t slept
In hours

There’s nothing wrong

You’re dead
I’m not

So please smile

Published by Jake Thomas Shaw

Concerned with memory, currency, and destiny, I strive to capture each one as they happen. Join me and consume reality! Radio Reality. City!

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