The mini-blinds keep nothing out;
not sound, nor light, nor the tapping
foot of the waiting day. Black and white
bars slash themselves across the warmth
of bedding. There is the faint scent of gardenia
rising from the skin of my sleep addled lover,
whispering across my face; a soft music
playing at the edge of awareness,
and the luxury of muscles
stretching out from oblivion.
These are my only desires:
these sheets, this skin and hair,
this dusting of sunlight through
windows shuttered against the world;
the golden moments when Sleep abandons
its passengers on the shores of consciousness,
and all the day’s tiring moments begin
to clamor for attention, for that undivided,
unwavering scrutiny; a background static
that clouds my mind far worse
than my own apathy, clinging to the corners
of my brain like the whiskey-sleep
that still clogs my vision.
Oh, hell.
