four twelve, two thirty a m.

Published April 12, 2012 by April Fox

i don’t know what this is
two-thirty in the morning and my plans for sleep were sidetracked
by a conversation with an old friend
about nothing right now relevant
(she told me about her daughter’s broken arm
i responded with my son’s injury
the distraction was helpful and welcome)
and i tell my other friend that i should sleep-
tomorrow we will write a book
zen and the art of-i shouldn’t say it
if she were here we’d laugh about it in person
instead we send winky faces
and smirk into the silent room.

i don’t know what i’m talking about here.
if the earth tips upside-down, you’ll never know it
gravity’s a bitch that way
and apathy loves me like someone sleeping
restless next to you in bed
snoring softly till you want to kick him out
and send him home
but there’s nowhere left to go

i like the dark
i like the silence
i like the peace
tomorrow, sleep-worn and remembering i might
not remember anything
tomorrow this might be
the end
or not.

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