<- the smell of my bedroom the way his hair curls how my sheets in the morning are cold i'm told getting old is a little bit dry and morbose, maybe gross but not scary if you're to believe them it's gold. at least that's what i'm told. but sunrays look dimmer and dark shadowly halls in my mind seem ever easier to find in the night of my chamber as i pace on the floor it can't just be me, the sun sets differently, how the brightest of red used to rouse me from bed, but now all i feel is the familiar dread of the cold on the floor nothing more it can't just be i, how night swallows my sky like a snake takes a rabbit head whole in the pit of my mind is the skin of his face his flesh taught like a taught trampoline at its base where's the day? it never used to be this way something is different