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When I was 17, I fell asleep forever.
Or, at least, I had hoped that was the case.
I nestle the contour of my back into a smooth crevasse,
jagged rock surrounds me.
My once black cargo shorts dressed with traces
of clay and limestone now glisten
in the protruding stars lurking
from behind their cloud sheets.
They stalk me.
I twitch at the quiet rustle of pebbles
bouncing off the giant rock that supports me;
like yesterday when warm rain tap danced
on my forehead; the sky wailed in Jerusalem.
The Negev Desert whispers to me,
its cool breath brushes against my neck.
I try to lift myself, pushing my hand against bedrock.
I sink lower into my skewed crypt;
gravel still clings to my palm.