Marginalia

You’re snoring soft while the clock counts down,

the only living soul in this quiet town.

I meant to write 'butter' and 'laundry soap,'

but I’m sketching the end of a fraying rope.

I used to love how your laughter would ring,

now it’s a jagged and sharp-edged thing.

The pen bites deep through the yellow sheet,

marking the pages in a steady retreat.

I can’t say it loud when you’re looking at me,

so I bury the truth where you’ll never see.

The indentations are sharp and they’re clear,

the ghost of the words that are keeping me here.