the soft patter of raindrops in the morning
syncs with the slow thrum of the heart,
weaving melancholy, ebbing anxiety,
i close my eyes
and try to re-free fall back into dreams –
where there’s peace and reprieve,
where the weight is able to untangle itself
from the chest between the ribs
washing out through the window into
the slow rolling fog of the city.
if every morning is a grey prologue,
i just pray behind closed eyelids
for a very happy ending.