As shadows crawl across my sheets
In the silence of late night hours,
protesting the rise of tomorrow's sun,
I drum my pale, sweaty fingers
Against the tops of my tensed thighs in an angst
Not unlike the tension that arises
In the dull roar of these quiet hours.

In the morning, I will wake, breathe.
I will stretch as if I slept well.
And I'll make it through another day
knowing that the ephemeral respite
of sleep -so reliably comforting to you-
doesn't await me in like fashion.

No. My sheets are the hopes and fears
which weigh most heavily on my chest
in the absence of those who can see my struggle.