I lie sideways, My face propped upon my right hand, The tendons click and pop softly, So as not to disturb the silence. Forgive my writing if you will, For I write blind.
My eyes are heavy with sleep, And my lids have locked like treasure chests. I am coverless in this hot night, But comfortable, lulled to sleep by night-sounds. The gentle purr of London traffic,
And the swoop of planes like owls, On their milky-way flight path, Yet I cannot sleep. Fatigue has not outpaced me, Despite the sluggardly race I run. I am still here, just.
I press my face to the linen. It smells of clean, artificial flowers - Of meadow grasses and lavender, Drowsy scents, pulling me in. And as I sink, they puff into the atmosphere. Now, now, now.
I forfeit my position, Surrender my powers. Sleep may take me at her pleasure. But for now, Now, now. I am still here, Just.