Couch-bound Monday afternoons,

Sat atop piles of old unsent letters,

That were once so easy to write,

But are now outdated and hard on the eyes,

Browning envelopes losing glue,

Pale white skin that gathers dust by

Collecting sentiments of awkward expression,

Tender rays of late spring, early summer sun,

Puncture the blinds like bars of a prison cell,

And stale air swamps around my ankles,

Like an ocean of broken glass,

Each reflecting pale blue ideals and photographic memories,

That form into melancholic songs,

Of how good it feels to be dead,

Dead,

Whilst sitting atop piles of old unsent letters,

To Honey.