A night like this
Where insomnia eats away at my limbs,
Constricting veins and
A night like this when my mind
Unfolds like a shredded handkerchief,
Bloodied and torn by jagged memory and pliant flesh.
A night like this is when I would think of them,
Those i’ve lost, those i’ve failed,
A night like this brings a special silence
Where only the pipes groan
As the water runs over.
I wonder what they would think at the sight of me,
Pale and ingrown,
Soggy origami on stained tile.
Pride is a stranger on a night like this.
A night like this where the rag of my own breathing
Of my own life, is unwelcome,
the act itself an insurmountable labor.
O god! If the void calls, then let me answer!
For on a night like this,
When the mind teems with resurfaced dreams long ago put to bed,
When a pen is more an anchor than a lifeline,
And the clock more an omen than a guide,
When vision becomes static and reality is a tightrope
Walked with little care.
On a night like this,
A beginning entices much less than an end.
So what can I do but wait and contemplate and forgive time
On a night like this?
What can I do but sit in blackness and await the day as it crawls,
So maddeningly marginal across the arched horizon?
Are you awake, too?
I have only the first streak of dawn as an answer.