I lie in bed awake again. Untouched.
We even sleep beneath separate blankets tonight,
as if an invisable line has drawn itself down the center of our bed.
You cough and say "I love you" but it sounds more like a question.
My body has gone cold.
A warm meal, uneaten, left to sit out all night as tha plate grows chillier.
Outside my window, the jingle and chatter of the moon and stars escalate to a piercing din.
and the wind sounds like a car crash at the split second of impact.
A cacophony of night. clatter.
Like a tin can orchestra.
I want to open my window and yell at the night.
Eyes wide, clutching an old animal bone.
Shaknig my fist, scream "Shut up!"
I cannot sleep.
I cannot sleep through all the noise.
Alone beneath my blanket. no silence. no sleep.
We argued today. (we never argue)
The stress had reached a fever pitch.
It contorted us.
Twisted us to serve its own will.
Now are bodies lay limp and exhausted.
Used, bags of bones, staring wide eyed and blank.
No impulse left.All passion gone.
The passion was not ours to begin with.
Borrowed, found, stolen.
It entered us like a ghost.
Tossed us around
left us more empty than we were before.
Like a stomach after the vomiting
After the dry heaves
No acid left
Just empty
and with a bad taste in our mouths.
We even sleep beneath separate blankets tonight,
as if an invisable line has drawn itself down the center of our bed.
You cough and say "I love you" but it sounds more like a question.
My body has gone cold.
A warm meal, uneaten, left to sit out all night as tha plate grows chillier.
Outside my window, the jingle and chatter of the moon and stars escalate to a piercing din.
and the wind sounds like a car crash at the split second of impact.
A cacophony of night. clatter.
Like a tin can orchestra.
I want to open my window and yell at the night.
Eyes wide, clutching an old animal bone.
Shaknig my fist, scream "Shut up!"
I cannot sleep.
I cannot sleep through all the noise.
Alone beneath my blanket. no silence. no sleep.
We argued today. (we never argue)
The stress had reached a fever pitch.
It contorted us.
Twisted us to serve its own will.
Now are bodies lay limp and exhausted.
Used, bags of bones, staring wide eyed and blank.
No impulse left.All passion gone.
The passion was not ours to begin with.
Borrowed, found, stolen.
It entered us like a ghost.
Tossed us around
left us more empty than we were before.
Like a stomach after the vomiting
After the dry heaves
No acid left
Just empty
and with a bad taste in our mouths.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
that's how the conversation begins
from there things settle downand we talk
like civilized entities that we be and hash out
what it is that stinks, the chores left unfinished
no point in keeping it bottled up
up and at them now or the mess will only get worse
speak, damn you, speak!
can't sleep, can't sleep with shit brewing
people live for passion but passion is as much a recluse as anyone of us. stage performance is excellent! in the flesh, off the stage, sometimes very hard to talk to. a different persona? we play hide and seek. problem is we rarely define when it begins and when it ends who is hiding, who is seeking.