The edge of the bed sinks beneath my weight

The edge of the bed sinks beneath my weight,

soft fabric holds the taste of yesterday’s fight.

I open the drawer, a familiar state,

a book’s spine dusty with the years of night.

The marked page stares, a frozen scene,

tales of lovers lost in weathered lines.

Words echo back, a time where we had been,

yet now it feels like reading fractured signs.

How easy it is to slip back in the dark,

where old feelings breathe, igniting sparks.

With every turn, the patterns leave their mark,

as if this story never knew its arcs.