Insomniac
driven by dry tears
a barely beating heart,
and scarce,
pained lungs.
In the dark,
eye lids lowering.
Staying awake with fear,
without a choice,
cold on a hot summer's night
the shivers em pattern themselves on my skin,
a pattern of another's arms.

Shivers tracing up and down my body,
imprinting themselves
to a place,
in a time where maybe I am not so lonely.
Curled up,
pale and frail,
long sovereign hair in tangles
with sad eyes
glistening with the tears
that are yet to come.

The house is empty.
The air is quiet.
Nothing but the quiet heartbeat of
me, myself, and I.

A distant melody of a land faraway,
where I do not mind being lonely.
But that is not where I am.
I am in a place where the shivers
run up and down my arms
with every minute
of every day.

I feel the loneliness closing in.

Shrinking into myself,
I hate that feeling,
of being cold on a hot summer's night.