I see the stain on the pillow from
another night of nosebleed.
A bruise on my shin from atrophied balance
meeting the bedpost says good morning.
Straw like hair creeps back.
Evidenced by strands littering my bedsheets,
shining silver where once they were brown.
I blame the cold dry air of winter
knowing that would impede fluidity,
improve the viscosity of my blood when
I cut myself shaving.
I quit shaving instead.
One more time.