It’s broken;
I only do it in shards,
leave them on the pillow
repeatedly. I get up
and do other, cannot
do it, not often, not for long,
and I miss it. Miss its long form.
Miss oblivion, miss utter blankness —
miss upon waking
the recollection of how
upon its beginning
the dimming blue
deepened into…
how the blue deepens into nothing;
too often now I’m left
trying to recall that.
What’s that on my tongue,
what’s that on my fingers?
What can’t I feel?
What am I missing?
Soon enough, I fear,
I will abandon sleep altogether;
when I do,
I shall miss this life.
Dark Matter 
November 21st, 2012 at 5:55 am
I’ve known many sleepless nights before moving to the south of France. I hope you find some serenity. There is hope!
November 21st, 2012 at 8:12 am
Oh, thanks…but don’t worry too much about me. I rarely write purely autobiographical poetry. While I do have some sleep issues related to apnea, it’s not as bad as all that.