narcoleptic naps
during the long
sunlit hours of the day,
blankets hung
over windows
over unrested eyes.
the dull click of nails
picking at cuticles
already red and raw,
but clocks tick
to no audible rhythm.
some answers
hidden under the fresh flesh
of thumbs.
a comfort
lay in the cold
untouched territory
of the sheets
on either side,
a warm damp spot
already self-proclaimed,
molded to fit this body.
no need to move.
no reason to leave.
a lonely and dark cave
of familiarity,
frailty and habit.
Prosperity’s demise.
