The city lights drip onto my skin.
The spaceship-like lamps of a parking lot,
the glowing towers over the urban bridges,
tall silver snakes like guards on the highway.
Flashing through the windows
over my heavy lidded eyes.
Dark, light; shadow, sun. A constant blinking
of a passenger's plaintive sight.
I do not sleep, and do not wonder why.
I simply enjoy waking at all hours,
finding pleasure in being in existance
while the rest of the world dreams.
Even in this car, my brother sleeps while driving.
His smile is peaceful, the music lingering in his mind.
But I am thoughtful, unwavering, every note
another word on a page.
Every nod of Chris Thile's head,
the stomp of Sara Watkins' feet,
the melancholy and sulking form of Sean.
Do musicians see the world as I do?
A passenger. Every passing light
another sold-out concert, a number one fan.
Do people feel the lights as I do?
A moment of joy, a kiss on the cheek,
a good cup of tea after an argument.
The darkness is an insult, a bloody nose,
a bad dream that keeps returning.
All the reasons I stay awake
would not make sense
to a person who experiences complete joy
and happiness day after day.
Nor would it be logical to a suicidal maniac.
But it is what I do, in my deep
and thoughtful state.
I breathe, I think, and keep my eyes open
for the floating lights that seem to
smile down on my waking.