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Insomnia Concerto Sensoriale
3:27am
I’m awake
like the sun
with only
the moonlight
keeping me company;
words flow
grow
they know
I need sleep -
eyes full of sand
but a mind full
of patterns
colors
shapes, unidentifiable
at least until
I look them up
in the light
of later today
converging melodies
written upon
the shifting amalgam
~of thoughts~
too many to detail,
colliding in their hurry
to pique my interest,
showing off to grab
my full attention,
all equally self-important
which is to say,
all equally unimportant;
~married to sound~
the slightly warbled,
off-center sweep
of the ceiling fan,
the manufactured tin rain
trying hard
to make me believe
from my pretend-noise box,
the faint electronic hum
of a life fully plugged in;
~infused with smell~
the stale ghost
of the cigarette
I smoked,
sitting cross-legged
on the floor
beside my open patio door,
the frosty air
tempering my fevered
rumination,
the sweet undertone
of nag champa sticks
to which I’m currently curating
a curious addiction,
the acrid lingering
of forgotten chicken
from an unremarkable
dinner
a sliding symphony,
they all perform at once;
music composed
from the numbers
on the antique wall clock,
round beats
with squared notes
low, voluptuous bass,
lips pressed to skin
in a smooth soprano swing;
light dances on the letters
that spell the numbers
as they pass through
my mind
like strategically scattered
street lamps,
approaching and fading
in that frenzied way
they seem
when driving home
from places
you shouldn’t have been
and stayed in
way too late
my orchestra
is delightfully defiant,
refusing to listen
to the tap! tap! tap!
of my conductor’s baton;
instead crowding their heads
together,
they conspire to create
a collaboration
of my brain’s misfiring
and the resulting harmony
haunts me
it’s beauty mathematical
logical and yet ethereal,
it’s barely contained chaos,
and it’s formulations -
equations I don’t comprehend
yet feel as familiar as family,
float languidly
above my head,
breaking my heart once again
for what feels like
the millionth time
that I can’t share this
with you,
this Concerto Sensoriale
majestic in its presentation,
it’s beauty compels tears
to jump to their deaths
in the hollows
of my cheeks,
but I’m the only one
who will ever
know of my masterpiece,
played in the soft light
of a million stars
in a cold, clear sky -
keeping me
awake
I’m awake
like the sun
with only
the moonlight
keeping me company;
words flow
grow
they know
I need sleep -
eyes full of sand
but a mind full
of patterns
colors
shapes, unidentifiable
at least until
I look them up
in the light
of later today
converging melodies
written upon
the shifting amalgam
~of thoughts~
too many to detail,
colliding in their hurry
to pique my interest,
showing off to grab
my full attention,
all equally self-important
which is to say,
all equally unimportant;
~married to sound~
the slightly warbled,
off-center sweep
of the ceiling fan,
the manufactured tin rain
trying hard
to make me believe
from my pretend-noise box,
the faint electronic hum
of a life fully plugged in;
~infused with smell~
the stale ghost
of the cigarette
I smoked,
sitting cross-legged
on the floor
beside my open patio door,
the frosty air
tempering my fevered
rumination,
the sweet undertone
of nag champa sticks
to which I’m currently curating
a curious addiction,
the acrid lingering
of forgotten chicken
from an unremarkable
dinner
a sliding symphony,
they all perform at once;
music composed
from the numbers
on the antique wall clock,
round beats
with squared notes
low, voluptuous bass,
lips pressed to skin
in a smooth soprano swing;
light dances on the letters
that spell the numbers
as they pass through
my mind
like strategically scattered
street lamps,
approaching and fading
in that frenzied way
they seem
when driving home
from places
you shouldn’t have been
and stayed in
way too late
my orchestra
is delightfully defiant,
refusing to listen
to the tap! tap! tap!
of my conductor’s baton;
instead crowding their heads
together,
they conspire to create
a collaboration
of my brain’s misfiring
and the resulting harmony
haunts me
it’s beauty mathematical
logical and yet ethereal,
it’s barely contained chaos,
and it’s formulations -
equations I don’t comprehend
yet feel as familiar as family,
float languidly
above my head,
breaking my heart once again
for what feels like
the millionth time
that I can’t share this
with you,
this Concerto Sensoriale
majestic in its presentation,
it’s beauty compels tears
to jump to their deaths
in the hollows
of my cheeks,
but I’m the only one
who will ever
know of my masterpiece,
played in the soft light
of a million stars
in a cold, clear sky -
keeping me
awake
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