the night is cold and she sits cross-legged in the middle
of her backyard,
dressed only in a tank top and shorts.
she looks up at where the stars would be
if the sky
weren't filled with city lights and smog

she wonders if the stars are even there anymore.

                                                       ­                     stars are stars are stars
                                                  the ones in the sky aren't the only ones.

yes, but they are the ones that matter.
to her.

                                                           ­                                           of course.
                                                         ­ but still not only, not a singularity.

there is only singularity.
she stares at the empty sky and thinks this.
only singularity, individuals and alone.

                                                         ­                                         not always.

often enough.

she stands
and enters the dark and silent house.
she knows her brother sleeps down the hall,
her sisters sleep down the stairs.
but nothing stirs.
there is only her.

                                                           ­       night thoughts are dangerous.

that is truth.
she thinks and thinks and her
thoughts spiral

down,

down,

down.

                              ­                                                               why not sleep?

sleep is elusive. she has tried,
chasing after rest to the point were exhaustion
is a familiar companion,
pounding along beside her as she runs.
exhaustion and a Heaviness,
curled up behind her eyes.
the Heaviness stirs, sometimes.
she can live with the headache.
it is a gift, in a way, telling her she is not alone in her mind

                                               what of the morning? what of the dawn?

the sun stabs her eyes and burns the words out of her mouth

as the house wakes the noise builds until she only wants
the dimness and numbness of the dusk again.

                                                         ­       this is really about you, isn't it?

you are too clever for me.
she-
i haven't slept well in so long.

                                                          ­        i wish you a good night, then.

wishes mean nothing anymore,
and a good night is a night where my mind isn't
turning over and over
like a riled dog,
whether or not that means sleep.

i have waking dreams now.

                                                           ­                           and is that so bad?

i suppose not.
but i know i should not have them.
night thoughts are dangerous, you said,
and even more so when they turn up like carrion birds
in the day,
pecking and tearing away at what's left of a mind.

                            you poor child. the world has not been kind to you.

no, the world has not been kind.
but i am not disillusioned.
i was never told it would be.

                  that does not mean there aren't soft things, warm things.

things that dry your eyes and fill your emptiness?

                                                     ­                                                          yes.

i have a place inside shaped like one of those,
but it remains empty.
sometimes i wonder if it will ever be filled.
if i will ever feel whole.

                                                       ­                       do not say such things.

fine.
i won't.
but i'll still think them.
even if i try not to, i won't be able to stop it.

                                                            ­                                              cynic.
          ­                               there must be some good feeling inside you.

there is not. i am selfish, selfish, selfish.

...

old things stir in my chest.

                      there is always redemption, there is always absolution.

i hope so. i do not know.
i only know there is not peace.

                                                         ­  there will be, there always will be.

i don't believe you.

                                                           ­ that does not change what is true.

it can. belief is the foundation of most truths spoken.

                                                   spoken by silver and devious tongues.

is there any other kind?

                                                          ­                                  yes, yes, yes.
                                           there is truth, there is hope, there is peace.
                                    always, surely as the sun rises in the morning.

is there?
i am not sure of anything anymore,
not even of the sun.

                                                      it is not hopeless, you have a chance.

are you certain? the night still calls me.

                                                            ­                there is always a chance.

you keep saying that.
always, always.
is there an always?
everything dies, everything ends.
that doesn't sound like /always/ to me.

                                                            ­                              there is, there is.
                                                             ­                                        a promise.

promises mean nothing to me.
too many given have been broken.

                                                        ­outside the night is dark and cold.
                                                          ­                     do you wish to return?

what i wish for does not matter. it never mattes.
it is what it is and will be.

                                                            ­                            it always matters.

there's that word again. always.
as if there are no exceptions.

                                                    ­         the night calls. do you answer?

no. i will not answer to anyone ever again.

-(insomnia is an old friend and the moon and i make three)

h.f.m.