the feeling is distinct to my chest
it's a harsh pang at first
and then a dull ache

and then your neglect of it all,
a minor oversight,
an 'it'll pass'

and then you're mulling over it on one of your could-be best days
the thought, the insignificance of it, brews within you
you think, maybe I could have dealt with it

but the feeling is so serene on nights
that are scarce of sleep
the watchman stomps his stick, just bravado
and the lights outside cast shadows on your wall

should draw the heavy curtains, don't want to wake up at dawn
but dancing shadows conjure up dreams of ballet and chronicles of dark forests and savage men

just things I don't know much about
but the feeling seems to gain irrelevance over this all

and one afternoon, I'll be up on the roof, my hair sprawled over the dust of the floor and the feeling will be back and the rosy laziness of the 3PM sunset will be gone.