Again, this page

The springs sigh beneath my weight,

the mattress dips, a familiar give.

Another argument, another flight,

just enough to survive.

I open the drawer, the wood complains,

and there it is, worn and thin,

the Gideon Bible, with its stains,

and the same underlined verse within.

It’s always Genesis, or Revelations,

or Psalms about a broken heart.

Always the same worn justifications,

like we can't quite make a fresh start.

And the cheap lamp casts a yellow glow,

on words that offer no release.

Just the slow, dull rhythm of what we know,

a broken record, no peace.