watching others sleep
in a strange house
amounts to: alone
so i mouth the word
language i have a grasp on.
is the only noise because i've
muted the television
graze the sofa,
and clink ice in my glass.
every gesture i make
echoes through the living room
when i walk, and the soft pads of my feet
thump against the bare wooden floors
but i know
no sound really matters.
the toilet flush and my restless shifting
in your bed did not disturb before, and so i won't
annoy you now with whisper-soft footfalls
or the sneaky hiss and hum of
when i refill
for my scotch
although it doesn't stop
me from attempting silence like
the intruder it seems i am when
i see you two curled
around each other
when four hours ago, i was holding
will the alcohol
do for a sleep aid, or do i
to smoke myself into
the tv light flickers
across my book’s pages. tonight is chilly outside
and ideal for the kind of rambling, blind
pacing i plan on engaging in, losing myself up
and down the streets, through your unknown
neighborhood, until my
body is worn and collapsing.
sleep (or not), heavenly fucking peace.
*senior thesis poem.
yes, i realize, at some point, i have no doubt titled another poem (or two) the same thing...
this is the one with "insomniac" as the official title. official, as in published.
to be frank, titles are very fluid with me. i tend to either get stuck on one thing (no matter how bad) or change it countless times. or to pick something randomly, stick it on there, and years later be so confused when i come across the weirdest working titles in the universe. it is, without fail, the very last thing i edit on a poem.
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