The sunlight feels like a blanket
thrown on the floor
because passion loses itself
when it’s clean and organized,
while the curtains betray the darkness,
reminding me of someone seduced
more by love than anyone,
so the sort of feelings
that loads a pistol or empties
a bottle seem as natural
as a cartoon heart,
which leaves me alone
with my loneliness tapping its foot
waiting for my relapse,
only to be disappointed that I remain calm,
telling my naked self-doubt
it looks fine.