every lump in this mattress
a boulder against my back,
every wrinkle in the sheets
a two-by-four in my shoulder,

sleep denied by the fear
of what tomorrow’s visit
will bring. i squeeze my eyes
shut, try to focus instead

on the events of today,
find some relief, conjuring
her face. but then
visions of another face come,

black and white, frame by
frame, like in an old film noir.
dark, my love for her was very
dark, a source of secret shame.

i get out of bed, go to
the window, look out on
a surreal scene- moonlight,
and its muted glow, hints

of lacy flakes.

Like i’m here, but i’m not.
like someone cares.
but they don’t.
like i belong somewhere
else, anywhere but here,
and escape lies just past
that snowy window,
cool and crisp as the February
air. i consider the streets
beyond, bleak as the bleached
bones of wilderness
scaffolding my heart.
just a stone’s throw away.

but she’s out there,
stalking me, hunting me.
i know she can’t get me
in here. besides, i’m too
tired to pick myself up
and make a break for it.
so i just sit here, brain
wobbling. tripping.
tripping on prozac.