Insomniac

I want to make something
(anything)
laptops and sweaters make for
odd thoughts in the night.
What would I do without you?
Maybe nothing at all.
Bookcases
empty
waiting to be filled
clocks and neckties and
(nothing in particular)
Why is no one there? Why is this still empty?
Missed keys and
honeyed perfume.
Thinking of blankets and (you and me and)
that morning on the bridge.
But that was a long time ago. No thoughts any more.
It hurts to think of what's gone (what's changed).
Oh, I wish you were here.
Oh, I wish I was here.
Oh, I wish we could hear.
But we're deaf and without thought (or feeling)
and there is nothing else to do but
drink the cold tea and wish I would
feel more than a spark (a fire)
a flame (a bonfire)
a forest fire (an inferno)
a hell of thinking of you
of wanting you.
But who are you?
You're no one in particular (oh yes I forgot. Just a
figment of my imagination.) But you take
so many different guises.
You scare me
you treat me
you love me
you make me into something I never was before.
I don't know who I am any more.
But then maybe all I ever knew was what I wanted to be.
So goodnight, I guess, and let it be over.