Every day, I wake up on a cold stab in the morgue.

I never know the time but I always know the day.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday...

and then Monday all over again.

It's never Sunday but I don't mind much.

There's probably nothing special on Sunday.

ಌ

I know why I'm empty.

That emptiness inside.

My mother always tells me lack of meditation leads to ignorance.

I've been meditating... all this time.

On a pair of stone cold eyes.

I've been waiting on him day by day.

To catch him asleep.

ಌ

I wake and it's morning.

I find him at peace, asleep on his tray.

It suits him. I like him better this way.

My mother always tells me if you want something done, do it yourself.

So I do it.

I slide his tray in and lock his refrigerator door.

I press my ear against his box.

He moves. He shifts. But no more mischief.

I whisper a 'Good morning.' I wonder if he can hear.

I ask him how he feels today without a single tear.

I give him a smile. Not empty. Not full.

I laugh my last laugh, how I imagine it to be.

Back onto my tray.

Back to sleep. Back to sleep.

To wake again tomorrow?

No, thank goodness; no, not anymore.

ಌ