I don't know why I'm up
or what I'm waiting for,
who I think will save me.
I can sleep. My bed is there
safe, and soft, and warm,
I'm not an insomniac
and I would just
piss the time away, anyway.
The books are on the shelf,
papers and pens undisturbed,
work unfinished cluttering
the untouched bench.
I don't know why I'm here
sitting at a window
as if I'll miss it--
as if I'll lose myself--
as if I'll let the universe down.
April 2022
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