Your body is a pond, and I
am a remarkably privileged fish.
I could lose myself in you.

Lately, I been quietly
feeding myself to bursting-
belly tight as a drum
every evening, in the vague hope of
creating something tangible
to fill a void left by
god knows what, regardless,
I wake up each morning
pitifully unchanged, and
hollow as ever.

The world lacks a cure
for insomnia.
The tablets are temporary,
and there is no solace
in counting farm animals.
Every night’s a familiar stage.
and I am an accomplished pretender-
going through the motions of sleep and
breathing at a calculated pace,
just as much an actress as
any lady in a movie. Still,
I can’t fool myself.
Under the accusatory glow
of red digits, 5:30
my mind is whirring.
It says: you are free to go
there’s no one to hear
the patter of footsteps,
the creaking of drawers.
Tread lightly.