Insomnia

The placebo effect
of my play-acted independence
slips chilly
down my throat
and stops the shaking of my shoulder blades.

My toes curl in on themselves
and whisper to each other.
“It’s almost two AM.
She should be asleep.
Can you feel the sweat pooling?
Me too.
How disgusting.”

White noise in the background
persuades my eyelids open
and fists closed,
almost as disturbing
as the silence.

And you are so far,
so distant
from this pooled sweat and medicated-stillness.
How can I hope to explain
everything that happened
before you came?

On the wall
in my friend’s fragile-lettered hand
is taped a card shouting
“Maranatha!”
and, in my blasphemy
my ribs compress
and sigh
“Yes.
You.
Come quickly.”