Night Owl

I am sitting in a pitch black room, but somehow it appears navy. My face is only lit up by the man-made light that comes from a fluorescent computer screen. Pandora is playing James Blake and I am happy.

I have just finished a Vinyasa set of my own making and somehow I am still breathing. Doped up on allergy medicine and my own worst enemy, midnight memories, I sit in silence and feel my body sigh with relief. I am happy.

I sit with my legs folded under me and my hair wrapped in a makeshift bun at the nape of my neck. My legs are bare and prickly; I’m in an old T from cheer and “yoga shorts” that have my ass hanging more than halfway out and I am happy.

I am sipping on ice water, feeling the dull throb at the base of my spine; I let my body unwind. I am happy.

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K.

Your eyes were closing on your pillow,
And I told you I could stop talking.
But as you nestled down into your bed,
Eyes closed and chin on pillow you said,
No
“Your voice is soothing.”

That
was seven months ago.

The last time you saw me
was three weeks ago;
you claimed you were suffering from insomnia.