Breathless

I tried to ignore it,
then to bluff it,
then to style it out.
I put on a good show,
went to work
and did very little.
Nothing has changed:
I can't breathe.

Having exhausted
all other solutions,
it was time to call in the big guns
but I didn't do that lightly.
A week's worth of disturbed sleep
means I'm TIRED and do not need
an irritating house guest
who demands desperate hyperactivity,
decides that midnight is play time,
and artificially elevates mood.
The first few times,
it was highly amusing
but now it's kind of tedious.

The malaise burns—
everything's harder
when lungs feel deflated
and all semblance of fitness has gone.
The restlessless smarts too—
I'm meant to be sleeping
and at some point,
all of this
is going to come crashing down.

Still, this is where it's at:
I'm downstairs,
wrapped in a blanket,
writing vacuous nonsense
in the small hours,
thinking about bed
and the sleep which won't come.