Awake. Fight the need
to check the phone;
the disappointment of being
right about being alone
will only push it further.
Keep it on silent.
Regardless the heart sinks
into its blood still pumping for a reason
you ache to find.
The moon moves along its arc
in the sky; pilots light the night
anywhere but here.
Lives drive by,
gliding along sounding almost like
waves crashing to the land.
You park here to sleep
but can’t remember the last dark
you didn’t see
dissolve into another soulless day.
You’re removed from her alter now
like the sinner you’ve always been;
think of those who broke away before, bored
of the way you consume time
as it gathers behind the happy and sad alike.
So push further.
There are no more seasons
or evenings, only sections of time:
labor and rest, heat and freeze.
And this constant cycle
through the stages of grieving.
You yearn to turn off, but I know
you’ll keep waiting on the change you need.
Remember family dinners, talk
of the deaths people hoped to die.
Everyone wanted an endless sleep.
Soon you will mourn these days
having passed away too,
and it will keep you up like phantasms
of love and reunion
and the dread of their improbability.
People have to leave
and you want to be the god to make them.
Is your god watching you cry now,
you seeing their pictures
without you in them
smiling – no.
The irony of living is we shouldn’t be alive,
making sleep all the more a prize for the damned.
– Oakland, CA