You are my last poem

I vomit awake, sick,
hungover on my last dream
and shaking like a used up leaf
in an intruding winter wind.
I didn’t see this coming.
My distress becomes palpable,
the blankets try to suffocate,
as a sweat shivers in my intestines
and I cry hysteria, your face
torments me inexplicably.
I try to align to the rhythm
of my mechanical alarm and face today,
empty.

SS

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