soon it will be cold

there comes a time in the night,
four, five, six when you sit awake,
eyes open - an emptiness about you.
sleep is not in the cards,
time is non-existent.
hours pass,
or maybe just minutes…

you survey the room:
the doorknob seems shiner than usual.
the clutter: more extensive.
you light a cigarette
and inhale slowly.
you watch the smoke
with blank astonishment
as it hangs there; suspended,
ghostly captivating.

it’s hard to place this feeling.
you want more, you want it all,
but death also seems easy.
the line between the mundane
and the fantastic blurs
leaving you levitating between
states, immersed in confusion –
the couch winks at you
and the dog asks the time.

it’s sometime in september now.
you fell asleep in july …