Heedful Nights

Too possessive to be a friend. Demanding to the point of being an acquired taste. He calls my name and expects me to come running. Even if I close my eyes and try to ignore him, I hear him and feel him. God, I hate that.

He never stays in the morning. That side of the bed is empty. Night time is his kingdom; he always likes me best in moonlight, the silhouette of me. Away from crowds. He likes me all to himself.

Touch like a marble floor.

I could sleep inside a hearse. He makes me so very tired, one night after another vigil night.

Tick the fucking clock. Night comes around again, and I dread the pointless bedtime routine. He likes me feeble, broken, weepy, delirious.

If only I could sleep.

This was first published by STORGY.