I choose this over sleep,
I’d choose it any day.

In bed with a laptop,
I am a willing insomniac.

Sitting in the dark,
listening to the rain pour,
and placing words in ways
that no one ever has before.

There’s something magic about it
especially at this hour of the night.

I am alone with me,
and I feel like I’m becoming
who I want to be,
very slowly.

I choose this over sleep,
I’d choose it any day.

In bed with a laptop,
I am a willing insomniac.

I wish I came with a remote control,
some way to patrol every thought
that spins through my head.

If only I had a way
to change the channel.
Surf through the memories,
skip the painful and the miserable,
dwell on whichever one
pleases me.

Maybe, if I had a mute button
on my brain,
I’d finally be able to sleep.

I've made a you 2.0
a new you
the you I dream about.
The you I want you to be
the you that wants me
a soft and pliant you
like clay
malleable
and I've made a new me, too,
a me that deserves you
the kind of you that deserves me.
I want you
and you want me
in this new
world I've made
out of insubstantial dreams
of me and you.

It hurts
to face the original you
the real you
because you 1.0
is the best you.
I never could
do justice to you.
I could never
dream you
the right way.
Beautiful you,
and the real me,
in this world of
unrequited dreams.

Real me and real you
might never be meant to be
no matter how much
I wish the dream world
to be true.

I want to disguise you
in a clever metaphor.
Maybe compare you
to a bullet
or a freight train
or some exotic animal.

I want to hide you on this page,
make you a mystery,
but there's too much of you in my head.

All I can think
when I think of you
is you,
exactly the way you are.

That stupid little sound
that you make in the back of your throat,
and your crooked teeth
and your crooked eyebrows.
Your face when you sing,
how happy you are,
with the windows rolled down
and your sleeves rolled up,
tapping out the beat
on the steering wheel.
Your musical hands.

I want to grab onto one,
grab it and hold on,
and I want to feel
your crooked teeth
on my lip.

I want to hide you away
on this page
but there's too much of you.

I used to miss you – your face, eyes, and brain,
Our almost future, our petit château.
I missed you, until you drove me insane.
You locked me up in a portfolio,
And you tried to preserve my memory.
You missed me, you missed me, beaucoup, beaucoup –
I was an essential accessory.
“I need you, I need you, oh vous, oh vous!”
“Don’t you leave me, do come back, s’il vous plaît!”
You clung and you stuck, you filled me with dread.
You wrote for me, in lackluster français.
You came from all sides, left nothing unsaid,
          Played my guilt like strings, your marionette,
          Still trying to fight this **** minuet.

That voyage,
on the Beagle,
I discovered a beginning
Such revolutionary splendor –
The origin of species!

But I begin to wonder,
where is the creator?
I have always found him
in the yawning mouth of the
awakening morning glory.
I find him in the visage
of my Emma, her features
blooming in the sunlight.

But I begin to wonder,
what of the ichneumon wasp,
the unholy, unwilling alliance
with the unfortunate caterpillar?
The horrors of nature?
Where now is this creator?

Surely, he exists.
Can I have a doubt of this?
His species, though,
is far more complex
than that of the
singing mocking bird;
his features less defined
than that of the lumbering tortoise.

Perhaps the detail
of his nature originated
in the mind of mankind.

I run through the crowd,
gasping,
grabbing,
pulling at hems,
trying to get someone's attention.

In my ears,
I scream,
but to the crowd
it is only a whisper.
Barely a glance
is cast my way.

I want someone to
notice the turmoil
underneath the
careful blank slate
of my face.

I want them to see
through the smile,
down, down, to the
quivering lip.

See the tears
I keep back
in my empty eyes,
the heart on the sleeve
that I crumple in my hand.

Waiting for someone to see
what I'm not showing.