insomniac a few weeks back, i wondered what unsleeping every night might be like.
this imagined person is incomplete. here's a part of them amongst extended thinking time.

In the wake of: awake

Restless, she rests less.
They lie
Being or ceasing to be better before having been.

The vacancy is tempting.
In the terrace of a cafe or mouth of the underground
looking for another arm–
No, the answer is No.


He chose the simplest of ways to tell her he loved.

Those little words could swallow him up but
could they open, let him leave, be enough?

Outside it's winter.

They think same separate cold thoughts
of coming from somewhere of 
not being able to go back, or on. 
They think about other arms.

She wears smudged eyes and the Ramones
now recognises the song, nods along.

A voice falls down cracked crystal line
and that laugh, that sometimes laugh 
somewhere else. 



sleep is the dream.

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