This is the second sequential night
That I have not slept,
And as mother's sleep-drunk murmured remedy,
Microwaved milk, waits in a mug
To slosh about and offers no appeasement,
Irrational thoughts are in gridlock,
Merging with reckless emotion
Far less than fluidly.
This is not a monster in my closet
That mother can chase away by flashlight
With gentle words and sercret potions,
And this is not a calendar date
That I can count up to, and away from.
This kind of agonizing anticipation
Snarls when the thoughts of you surface,
While tiny red letters blink innocently- 2:23AM.
The thoughts that arise are adolescent at worst;
Perhaps even so caught up in rebellion
That I can't yet acknowledge them
As emotional government.
You tumble through my day and get tangled in it,
So that I can't sleep because of you,
But it's dreams of you that feed me for the night.
When I write for you spontaneously,
The stanzas grow longer each time our eyes
Lock for an instant, with a smile,
But as I write flashlight poetry
And lament the imposition of morality
And a logical, though unfavorable norm,
It becomes painfully aparent
That this is the second night in a sequence of many
During which I will chew my pen and worry
Over the fact that this time
I am simply not in love with being in love,
And that you are the same boy,
Over and over.
As it dawns on me, at 2:23AM
That the rhythm of longing is
A beat I will come to know intimately,
I extinguish my flashlight,
Flip over my notebook
And quietly vow to this pen and these pages
That I will not breathe a word of this to you.