Call Me in the Mourning

Take two, don’t call me in the morning; 

apparently

I’ve been shoring up too close to live rounds, playing games that go out of bounds, sporting shades of brown and black. 

Don’t call me in the mourning because I can never go back to common ground. 

Don’t lean on me because I will only take you down.

Instigator, emotional dumbwaiter in a hotel of horrors, and you’ll be greeted by the sounds of my haunt.

Don’t come looking because I’ll already 

be gone, while all the lingering ghosts will yawn at your audacity.

There’s jaundice in the walls, Happy Days on TV, spiders in the kitchen corner, a goodbye note hastily scrawled in Mandarin, but it wasn’t written by me.

Don’t call because there’s nothing here to daydream about
any longer.

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