Bach playing against an 8:44 sunrise

isn’t much, but it helps with cold nights

when the silence lists off all the things

you wish you would have said

or the windchill whispers secrets to you

in bed like a dying lover,

and the frost on the window

slowly melts,

nurturing newborn mold,

which shouldn’t mean much,

but somehow does.

Leaving the Blinds Closed at Night

Complaining about light pollution

as we clearly see it

smother the stars,

even if the darkness lights our brains

with thoughts of expired milk,

the stove left on, overriped bananas

attracting fruit flies,

overdue credit card payments,

empty photo frames at thrift stores

making a special sort of hell

only humanity could create.

The flash from phone screens

stealing a soul

we find comfort in

because of how we ceased

believing in it so long ago.