sleep is nothing more
than pressing pause on netflix;
our minds are put on hold,
our worries forgotten for the duration
of a few REM cycles.
the events of the past day,
week,
even our whole lives -
all of it is suspended,
frozen in the clutches of time -
lurking in the back.
Grendel in the shadows,
only woken by glaring sunlight
and the sound of joy.

the beast slinks inside
and it interrupts
the tranquility of transgression
with splintering, mind numbing, earth quavering reality.
and consequently,
reality is nothing more
than an empty space in a too cold bed.
it is nothing
but a series of unsaid goodbyes and
pleas for you to return;
but only in the mind,
because the words are burning holes
through my lying tongue.
the only reality left is sometimes,
i catch an icy blue glare in the mirror,
haunting and devastatingly familiar.

sleep is escape
if only to a universe where we
were not;
if only to a land where what is done
can be undone,
as easily as pressing undo while typing.
at least there, where i dream of you once,
again,
you cannot leave nor hurt me.
and we always have happy endings,
because i always pictured
that that was all you could bring me.

i never dreamed i couldn't dream,
or that the monsters lurked not in the shadowy alleys,
but instead, inside of me.
and i never imagined them seeping into reality.

i never knew losing you
could **** me.