INSOMNIA

Insomnia

The night is a stubborn thing,
stretching itself thin between my ribs,
a lingering hush where love once stayed,
where echoes of October still press against my skin.

I tell myself I have mastered solitude—
that I can carve my heart into an empty room,
furnish it with silence, and call it peace.
But peace does not knock at my door;
only the weight of faces I have met,
only the ghosts of maybe, almost, and never.

She is beautiful, and that is all.
Another, I watch, tracing the spaces between her words,
measuring the gaps where I might fit.
Some live only in my head—
soft, imagined warmth against my palms,
laughter spilling into the hollow of my nights.

And then there are the ones I pray about,
names folded into my lips like quiet petitions,
as if heaven might drop an answer
between my dreams and dawn.

Still, sleep does not come easy.
Loneliness is a patient thing,
tugging at my eyelids,
reminding me—not yet, not yet.