Canis Lupus Lupus

Lying awake, imagining a life whose details
will never come to fruition, choosing instead to
forever reside in the ever-distant horizon
of an all-too-busy mind.

The stagnant bedroom air decides to smell like
seratonin and dried-up dopamine; the open windows doing
nothing to quiet the stench, ensuring that the
decaying puddles on the bed remain firmly planted.

Perhaps the droplets will sprout from their linen fields,
blooming into crimson petals upon stained, white sheets.
Perhaps they will fade, dull and brown, obscuring themselves
and fading away like handfuls of smoke.

There are wolves that dwell here, silent and observant.
They wait, content in their knowledge.
The wolves make clouds when they sing at night.
Perhaps that’s why there’s always so much fog in the morning.