Here is Sleep,
stretched on my right side,
exuding warmth and calm
so close to my chilled skin.
He is distant despite the proximity
promised by the hands of clock and
length of lingering darkness.
The lights from the street and
solitary passing car slip between
slightly parted blinds into long stripes
across far white wall,
chasing shadows to restful corners;
their claws receded.
No longer do they unfold
toward me in the lonely dim.
In spite of the vow of peaceful nightfall,
I am awake with stale breath held in chest,
deconstructing a nightmare into
a coiled grey sweater left on floor.
The simplest of terrors paralyze,
leaving me vulnerable prey to the night.
It is impossible to be lucid
in the muck of these early hours,
when the tiny tragedies of
the ever turning world imprint dreams,
causing Sleep to lack the relief
he once promised.
Indifferent to my mistrust,
Sleep breathes, soft and rhythmic,
a silentious invitation to join him,
the only sound breaking the night.