When I met her I knew she was a sleepless night in the making.
She lays on a bed fit for mortals,
but the moon places a halo on her head as she sleeps.
I curse my eyes,
as acidic darkness clings to her skin
and eats at my ability to see her at peace.

Seventeen years of life
and I still have yet to realize:
that being a sucker for insomniacs is not good for me.