Sometimes when I can't sleep
because the velvet night is crashing against my ears
in a tempest of expired silence,
my mind is just a ripe and bated literary sunrise at the tip of
my pen,
and, pulled between the spaces on the page,
the only world I am left to believe is the one of the
letters that consume me.

You held my hand today, and at first
it felt all
wrong.
It was not a piano hand,
it was too brown and
my fingers laced
differently.
But then I remembered that there was no right and wrong,
just change
which I have heard is inevitable.

People tell me I write too much of love, that it is a waste
of my golden tongue.
So it is a good thing
that I am not writing for them, that I am writing
just to write.
Because sometimes when I can't sleep I must admit,
I pretend that I can hear you telling me
that you are thinking of me too,
and if I would only fall asleep
then you would be there to kiss the raindrops off my
cheeks,
and I wouldn't need to think so hard
anymore,
everything would just stop
moving
so I could get off and ask for a refund
because this ride has made me sick
and all I want to do is
pretend
that it's late
but not too late
to wake up