It would be different, I think, if I was productive at night

When the sky is so damp, stars winking through fog, and the blush of the moon through trees

If I held all the promises I made in the morning

And kissed their foreheads, blessing them with gravity

Nurtured them to adulthood in the darkness--

But that is not my way, nor the way of the night

The night is for dreaming, so the stars and I, the shadows and I, we scheme

We are wretched and pleased and shaken by memories of tenderness

Together

Until insomnia finally leaves me

And I am consumed by a numbness you cannot buy, or break

Her collusion with my traitor heart

Makes my sleep opaque.

Then comes morning, and my promises reappear, still hungry, still waiting

Still undone.

It would be different, if I was different. I hold your hand and let the warmth of your acceptance

Try to sway me

So that when insomnia visits tonight, I will at least be open to the mercies

Of my memory

And not my heartbreaks, my regrets

My ever present failures.

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