insomnia = poetry

I cant sleep here

the record is scratching and I watch a bird like a hungry artist

sitting on the edge of my window and trying to speak

I cant sleep here

candles fit into empty bottles of gin that give character to the darkness

washing the stains of time and space off my lips

yet I still cant burn them to the end

I cant sleep here

I wanted to dream we were sprawled on the sand like starfish drying our pores

our shoulders moist despite the sun and the footprints sinking into themselves

but here it is different because the shore no longer whispers my name

and the wind carries with it some different kind of heat

and its just that all the hazy pot smoking feels like tap dancing without shoes on

and I no longer want to sleep

when I shower the feeling still wont go

wont dissipate into dreams or nightmares or both

the water just runs down my thighs until the drain is filled with

nothing and I remember why

its hard to sleep when wet cobbled streets are expecting more rain

like sweat weighing down on the skin after sex

too heavy to shake

and the loud nasal laughter passes in the night through that window

because I cannot bring myself to close it

and though clothes cover my sins

I am never more naked than this

and this is better than sleep