A slow-rising migraine seeps into my head
As toxic floodwaters that fill the rooms of my home,
Seeping into my skull with powerful fingers
Like heat-seeking needles to pierce the calm quiet
Of a relaxed and peaceful reverie.

Sleep comes to me now
Like a lover, faultless yet wronged,
ever forgiving, crawling silently into my bed;
Like a heavy monsoon-soaked night
Descending on a decrepit, third-world city.

Wrapped in a blanket against the cold night
Like a paper-wasps' nest
in a black-and-white birch tree
dusted with snow;
Like the wick of a hundred-times-dipped beeswax candle,
awaiting the flame.

A heart beats monotonously,
Like a leather-encased clockwork, a spring-wound toy
It ticks away the hours until the moment
When, with a silence like a stone, it stops.

The close of the week,
Like an old familiar house you have vacated
And stuffed with memories still as fresh
As burnt Monday-morning toast
That still blues the air.

The night,
Like a panting black dog
Falling exhausted upon the day
Like his favorite old blanket.

We walked home
In the late autumn darkness.
The cold north wind
That tore at our faces on the way out
Now pushed at our backs.

Just a quick pint at the local.
Gloved fingers intertwined now
As we walk those few blocks home.
A few elusive stars swimming in the pitch.

Silver slivers of low clouds hang
Canopies over our houses
Reflecting city lights.
We shiver but still wait a few moments
To look at the night
Before we enter the warm bear-hug
Of our glowing home.