nicoleloveskafka

insomnia blankets

i watch the abacus keeping it’s 
tally of hours gone by since i last
slept even for a second
and i see with wavering vision all
the rows of rounded beads 
numbering seventy-two.
this is of no consequence to the 
black tar-pit formerly 
known as my mind.

nothing; it is ideal

was there ever anything at all?

words dripping like
hot lead
up and out of your
tender lungs.
i mistook all 
the crystalline mountains 
and dreams,
for more than the
hard 
glinting cut
of fool’s gold. 
where my body narrows,
in the the 
thin places
of my wrists, 
neck,
ankles,
i can feel throbbing blood
as warmed quicksand
of hunger
pulsing one voice
methodically, 
“it was a game,
it was a game.”
well, you should have said it was,
i would have played 
but not for keeps.

so phantom-limb sensations 
crowd along my body,
feeling of the 
blessed weight that your
arms and legs carry
as they twined around and 
embrace me.
i only have to shift my self,
feel the slick, light movement 
come too easy and 
suddenly i am reminded
awakened,
to realities of you,
having never been
in sight.