I used to value sleep, but now
I find comfort in soft darkness
and a secret, tentative happiness
in the quiet
of an abandoned house
and a sleeping world.

I used to love the smell of mornings and the crisp coolness
of dawn. But now,
I find myself (in)
staying up late, writing
words you are never allowed to see.
You rise with the sun. The mornings
are yours.
Take them.

I used to try to talk to you, but now
I find relief in my ink flowing
like water
and my words on the page, where they can breathe.
Where I can breathe
because you're not stealing
all of my air.