Dreary days

It’s four AM. First light appears on the horizon.

It creeps around the buildings,

Nudging awake the sweetly sleeping folk.


It’s four-oh-five. You put the kettle on.

The whistling sound breaks nightly musings,

Washing away unpleasantly tasting joke.


It’s ten to five. You stare, unfairly frozen,

The key chain with a tasteless, pink, plush heart,

Lies on the polished kitchen floor forgotten.


It’s ten past five. The road was mostly chosen,

You rush to pick the cruelly mocking heart,

To throw it out. The memories it brings are rotten.


It’s five to six. You sob and clutch it tightly.

The scene behind the window stays untouched.

The city yawns and stretches.


It’s nine pasts ten. Your breathing smoothed slightly,

You glance at plush disaster, firmly clutched,

And reminisce the past, burned sketches.


It’s ten to one. You build yourself from scratch,

Erasing the remaining trail of ill regrets.

You do not wish to have another clumsy restart.


It’s one past three. You recognise you’re not a match,

You haven’t won against the playful bets.

It’s better to step away and stay the f*ck apart.


You do not wish for restart

                                                                                                       You do not wish for restart.

You do not wish for restart.


via Daily Prompt: Restart

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