I Cannot Sleep

 

I cannot sleep.

The pillow turns,
the room turns,
the clock opens its little mouth
and eats another minute.

My eyes close
but nothing closes with them.

There is always one thought left awake,
sitting at the foot of the bed,
thin knees to its chest,
waiting for me to notice it.

I say tomorrow.

It says now.

I say morning.

It says no.

The dark is not dark enough.
The silence is not silent enough.
My body lies down
but my mind keeps walking,

from door to door,
from year to year,
from one unfinished sentence
to another.

Sleep stands somewhere near me.

I can feel it breathing.

But when I reach for it,
it steps back,
softly,
like someone
who has already decided
to leave.