Trucks pass, TV’s on
downstairs. A candle flickers.
Feet cold. Try to sleep.
*
The sound machine in
her room breathes ocean waves through
baby’s monitor.
*
The day clings ’round my
sternum, brushing heart and lungs,
burrowing there, though
I try to pry it
loose, humanely.
*
You arrive.
The house is darker,
quieter, heavier,
and I try to let the heaviness
blanket me,
or to float off
into light nothing.
I’m trying to sleep.
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I hate sleepless nights. And the more you try to sleep, the worse it gets.
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You’re so right. Luckily, I don’t deal with them too often, but they are the worst!
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