She calls in the morning, when

I’m waiting for alarm, breathing

the regretful morning, wishing

for light beyond sunlight and air

beyond breeze. She has no special 

ring tone, warning and dread 

having cancelled each others’ performance. I roll over. Groan. 

When I was small she’d care for

me when I was sick. I used to dream

of being ill, but then I wouldn’t admit

it when I was. She didn’t complain.

Never, forever in agony, and 

everyone admired that.

We were closer than mother and 

daughter. We were confidants, the

only other people in the world who

understood. And she needed me. 

I was her support, her best friend,

her reason for meaning. 

She sniffles on the phone and 

says she’s fine, her voice crackling

like a brittle leaf in autumn. The words 

are always different than the 

interpretations, but vague enough

to make me doubt myself. 

My spirit is emptied by her now, 

poured out without a conscious 

thought, painted on an underpass 

along an empty highway.  I drive

under my own graffiti, always 

desperate, no matter the colors in use.