Sleeping Alone, Waiting for Nothing

Lying awake, in the awful quiet of my own presence,

That's when my thoughts are the loudest, the most discordant, intrusive, immense.

Music, plans, fictional arguments, insecurities, transgressions from the past, all seem to compete for domination of my oppressed consciousness.

I'd like to reach over, extend my arm and fingers so that they trace lightly the shoulders of another,

Shift my body in time with theirs,

Turn over and brush my lips across their spotted neck, up to their tender ear,

Then move to my back, as they turn to face me, and rest their head on my chest, rising and falling.

Instead, I lie alone, but for my thoughts, deafening me from within the silence, as I wait for nothing