Sitting under a little light, from a lamp overhead that enables me to read at night, surreptitiously sometimes, washing me in a white glow which slowly dies as it tumbles further into the room.
A miniature spotlight if you please, one that illuminates every word in a book.
A little corner of my bed that doesn't sleep, bright as morning under a tungsten moon.
Quiet it is though, so quiet that the soft turn of crisp pages is a cackle cacophonic tearing through silence. A rip in time, a torn bit of fabric that makes sleepy heads turn in my direction, as if I'd committed an act most heinous.
Rapidly reading through sentences and paragraphs, looking for sleep in subtexts. Somewhere between right now and never lies a perfidious slumber. I cast a net of well crafted words that breaks into figments of imagination.
Night has come and yet I'm not ready to go, for punctual as it always is, it's rarely inviting.
Soon..kisses
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