> s t e t s <
Can’t sleep.
Sleep is like the hand that keeps him from breathing.
Breathing in, in soft hums somewhere lonely in the distance.
Distance makes him feel numb.
Numb like a hand that’s limp-wristed.
Limp-wristed like ghosts who lost theirs in former lives.
Lives dispensed of loneliness and rest.
Rest that he seeks so desperately.
Desperately as the birds sing when the sun rises.
Rises to crush his longings.
Longings he’s damned to have.
Have sleep is what he can’t.
