Insomnia

Night called.
I didn’t know who it was,
so I answer

and we talk for hours.
We review the day,
the hours and minutes;

dissect, replay, analyze
until we create new scenarios
that are aided by imagination,

our mutual friend. Tones
become hushed, and an
awkward silence permeates

until it fills up the room and
there is no room to breath or think.
The clock stares at me with red,

accusing eyes, but I can’t stop the
conversation, not when there is still
so much to communicate.

The cord is tangled, and my
mind paces, back and forth,
back and forth, wearing a path

in the carpet somewhere between
the Hippocampus and the Optical lobe.
Eyelids droop with the weight of the world

and two cups of coffee. Things are always
heavier at night. Finally the threat
of weight lifting scares me to action.

At long last goodbyes are bid,
my good friend Night sighs,
and only dreams will keep my company.

Night called again tonight.
I wish I knew how it got my number,
but it will leave a message.

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