Something for the
insomniacs,
the maniacs,
and the lunatics.

Poetry about
you and me,
sleep and waking,
life and death.

This is to read
when the sun rises
and you're still awake,
or when the stars are
shrouded in clouds.

This is for all of you
who have yielded
your sanity to the moon
and felt the meaning of
lunacy in your bones.

I dedicate this collection of
oddities to all of you oddities,
may you read it and sleep.

Hazy street lamp light,
illuminating nocturnal spirits or otherwise
the ghost of a fire burning low,
all green tinder and ember,
its tender lain down
for the night.

It's nights like these that make feelings of regret creep out of the shadows,
they come in through the cracks in the walls and the space beneath the door and crawl into the crevices in my bones and the pockets of space in my heart that used to be filled by you.

I wrap myself in the words you used to say, reread the messages you used to write and surround myself with the gifts you used to send back when I thought I was special...
back when you made me feel special.

It's nights like these when I can't help but imagine how much warmer I would be if I was in your arms, how much easier I would sleep knowing that I'd be waking up to you: your smile, your jokes, your touch...

But instead of sleeping, my mind continues to replay the moments,
the days,
the weeks,
the weeks and the ******* the months that led to this point, my mind is stuck trying to decipher where things went wrong and trying to determine how we got here and trying to find a way to ask "can we go back?"



I want to go back.

At night the stars seem far away,
But through the dark is light and day.

stumble in the door
exhausted

strip
no teeth
no pyjamas

half-naked and shaking
curl up in bed

and continue to lie