Slave labor to be done

Open books and open pages

Sticky notes and ink stains

Bed covers tilted 

Humans in their words to

Unravel 

Meanings and sun burns

Hot in anticipation

Debussy by my side to 

Help me sleep

Injecting calm 

Dreams of city houses

Pink covering white

Families I do not belong in

Physical contact inching away 

Schoolmates in a daze

Waking to the sound of typing

Picnic blanket pillows

Eating off of my slumber

Closed books and closed pages

Dirty skin and broken wine glasses  

Debussy's piano fingers 

Finger through my brain 

Lightly, softly

Tranquil acceptance of Melatonin

 

Instamatic insomnia panoramas 

On my bloody sheets

Where my love had been 

And now removed 

A doctor standing over me

I situate what is left in the mess

Of crumbled papers and jet-black

I lock onto the photographs 

Taking their once prominent emotions

Back 

Selfish intrigues with past relations

I am no part of their disguise 

Hiding my life from me 

No one suspecting I am wise to their

Fallacies 

They talk behind and before me

Sit and stir their coffees 

Stir me while you are 

At it

I have become quite stagnant

Resting here with the memory 

Of you