Do I Get Out of Bed This Morning?

Memory moves across a map

like the lines in a face

spread and deepen,

souring testimony

to the smile gone,

the unheard laughter

and cheek offered up

for a kiss that will not come.

Skin fades imperceptibly,

its colors hesitate

unsure if they will cling to heat

or sink to the pale pulse

of resignation.

Do I get out of bed this morning

yet again? Do I wash my face?

Do I speak?