i awake to my blaring clock,
and stare around my messy room
that i've promised myself i'd clean
about seven or eight times now.
i make a pb and j for lunch,
for the sixth time this week.
its taste loses something every day,
like a fading pair of jeans.
the hardest part of my day
is knowing i still have a long way to go,
before missing you isn't a part
of my normal, everyday routine.
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