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Trying to fall asleep
after a conversation with you
is like
trying to sit still in silence
while the inescapably dulcet strains
documenting John Coltrane’s
obsession with perfection
play in the adjacent room:

Trying to resist
taking up my pen
after hours of reading you
is like
a Peregrine falcon
of flight:
against nature,
a disrespect to beauty,
an insult to the infinite
possibilities of life.

The climate has shifted
and I’d rather be awake again
than moving in the realms
of the utter loneliness
of my dreams
in my solitary bed
I’d rather have
my eyes open
my senses available
where rhyme and reason can touch me
where and when it wants to
no matter what time it is

(it’s 3:47 a.m.)

Because nothing,
the absence of anything
worth having
and holding on to
cannot bargain
for its existence
when something
crosses the threshold
and occupies the space
where nothing used to be.
It cannot say,
“Leave me a fraction of a place
where I can still manifest
with dignity.”
Because the waiting heart
no matter how patient
will not compromise