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Sleepless
The in and out of your breath and the steady drumming
of your heart are the only sounds you hear. Then
begins the music of the night.
Bumps and creaks join the background rythym, and long
sighs take their cues at intervals. Your forehead
glitters in beads of wet that run to your cheeks and
kiss salt on your lips.
The ghoulish concert, with you the audience of one, is
better missed beneath the heavy refuge of an old
quilt.
Holding your breath, in an effort to stall the music,
only makes your bongo-heart beat louder and faster.
And you have become, shivering and shrouded, a lump of
cold flesh in your own bed.
