Winged Creature and I'm Losing

from my bed i am secretly scanning the widths and lengths of the walls, the constructions of paint and particles organized in units, battalions.
their formation startles me in corners, at edges.
incongruous precipice.
the room takes on a breathier feel, like daffodils against the grain of tissue-paper. i trail the inconsistencies of sunbeams that crawl and stretch themselves against my skin. the hours are long and show no signs of consolation, no sympathy for my disposition.
i am not entirely alone here, with the larks pale chirp, the molecules that dance invisible around my space, your letters that spill your voice, rushing and distant, your last goodbyes.
with the moth that has found itself a home on my lethargic, open palm. the moth that does not move.
that does not make a sound.