There’s a sweet-spot in my sleeplessness, somewhere between ten too early and three too late, where I’m certain I become clairvoyant. There’s this one perfect, shivering instant hovering between a thought or remnant of a phrase where my fingers twitch in beat to the scattered dimension of my distraction and linger on towards total mindless meditation. It’s blinding, stark white like a near-death experience, and in that space I read illuminated endless future potential for action and retroactive possibilities of change.
It exists, but I never find it when I’m looking just as I never have figured out how to keep it for more than the span of a blink or a sigh. I suppose I must resign myself to yet another night of hopeful anticipation, a would-be seeker wandering well-mined moments alone. Its3am or thereabouts but numbers cease to hold meaning past their honeymoon, which blooms like a pumpkin at midnight on the dot. I’m awake still but day-dreaming lost, airfield circling and horse whisker kissing but wondering if perhaps you might look for us sometimes too. Tonight I promise not to drift if you’ll only turn back, come hold sway in my helical thoughts where the only score kept will be the one set to the grey-toned reel of our silent short. Enjambed surrealism with inter-titles born of an Underwood– the flaws of which remain unconcealed by hindsight and such lamented imperfections can only be construed as to-be-reviewed on this, our relentless quest for rose-filtered perfection.
Then it happens– two ticks ’till sweet-spot o’clock and I begin to remember how, somewhere in all that rain, I forgot the importance of sleeplessness at all. My head hit your shoulder and ignored your annoyed,
for when I slept I dreamt I was yours.