The unconscious mind can wander seamlessly through eight hours of time.
Searching, mending, forgiving, DMT-ing.  
Stir slightly dear, but don’t dare face the other direction.

“Let’s go outside,”
I say, but my suggestion flutters around your ears and dissipates into the air.
You sleep, you’d sleep all day if I’d let you.

Up and down, climb down from your parents bed
and crunch, crawl, creep, creak on wooden floor.
Hoping to wake you.

Forward seven months, and still sleeping every night.
Sleeping and moving accordingly with new loves.  
Draping arms and then later, struggling to remember a face.

The men sleep silently, quietly, without cease.
Never wandering or wondering or nervous.
Not self-conscious, fully comfortable.  

I sleep uneasy, unsure, and maybe uncomfortable.
Wanting, then pushing away, then wanting.
Sleep alone, then, you say.