BETWEEN THE DRIPS

I can hear the water clock.

The liquid metronome of a

dripping faucet. A distinct sound

muffled into silence during the

day of sounds.

 

On the ceiling, the passing reflections of

headlights from passing cars below

crawls over the cracked plaster. A blinking

neon pulses across the street, matching

the faucet drips and then quickly falls

out of sync.

 

Lying there in a salad of tossed sheets

sleep has abandoned me again,

unlike others thanklessly receiving

their gift.

 

…..a rising sun crosses over my eyes,

awakening me. Sleep once more

had entered between the drips, as it

always does.

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