Amy Middleton

Dead Ladybugs on my Window

At 4am my sweat-drenched sheets smell like you.

I’m jealous of the bugs because I can’t sleep

through a night. I’d grow an exoskeleton if I thought

it would help but I’m worried it’d just make me look fat.

Watered down coffee doesn’t wake me, it sits

heavy in my stomach wondering where you went-

together, we watch the sky turn white. A wall of

blackbirds come from across the street, all their wings

in sync, and they’re singing a song you once said reminded you

of me. One I could never remember the name of

but could always pick out if I heard it. Morning wanders

in quietly, careful not to glare in my eyes while I wash my mug.

Wet coffee grounds stain the sink- shades of brown

racing towards the drain- stuck in stasis, just out of reach.

Amy Middleton studies creative writing and graphic design at SUNY Purchase. She likes the color green, talking to bugs, and being called “Thursday.” Connect with her online at @thursday.poems.