"It's Probably Puke"

I uttered such a phrase just minutes ago in the bathroom. I think one's reached a crossroads when that phrase comes as no surprise. I have since changed into my slippers.

Sleepless nights

I started working on a poem about my frequent affairs with insomnia. Once an excitable mistress, awaiting opportunity on a rare restless night, insomnia has forced my true love from me, demanding all my attention. My relationship with sleep has never been truly healthy and I hope, wherever she may be, that this reaches her in time.

Sleep

Sleep seldom graces me with her airy presence.
I hear her light, barefoot paces outside the dense wooden portal to my ceaseless mind
bent on childish hypotheticals.

She teases the large iron handle until she is burned by the flames I unwillingly fuel
forbidding her entry.
Enraged and god fearing, she enters, her body trembling
the archway no longer presents an obstacle.

And in her audible release
we embrace.
Her porcelain skin, rippled by the winters cold,
forges with mine.