insomnia I press my hands against the pallid basin -- The hard, gray stone smells of headaches and of this long night when all I need is a glass of water and yet my tongue screams for quenching. My eyes shudder, battled ships on frothy seas that careen foolishily out into the hour hand of the clock. But I keep vigil, my mind twisted into delicate silk knots of anxiety -- wondering when the hollow light of morning will come and empty relief into this fragile monophony. As I draw my charred manias into sobriety, I knit an agitated quilt of sleepless nights and lassitudes meant to cradle me far into the dawn. The moon mocks me: for her hypnotic stare and longing glances dare me to rest yet she knows well that I cannot. And so I prise away the emerald seconds, my mind in constant revolution around every minute of my fever aroused in the stinging din of the silence.