my lover comes to me when she so chooses
and while i normally don't mind
i'm sitting here in my bed
and it feels a little lonely.
it's cold and dark. she hasn't shown.
red numbers tell me with pity its nearly one in the morning
surely, she'd be here by now?
i've heard the cooing of many others
how quickly they found their lover that night
'o, how lucky am i!'
they say
'to have found her at only nine!'
it's funnier when you see they're holding cups of poison for her
to discourage her visits when
the eyes of the world are open
some nights i take pills
to make my body sing more sweetly for her caress
but she does not care to claim me this night
nor, any other night, i suppose.
like the sky, i've closed my eyes
so the world is dark
but she has not come to kiss them
the numbers are woefully claiming it to be two in the morning now
and this is when she arrives
stumbling like a drunkard
she collapses atop me
and the feeling of
eternity
sets in.
this poem is about sleep