These last few days have passed as one,

with sleep avoiding me as my eyelids have avoided each other.

The aged floorboards creak loudly in this empty room

as I wander in a daze toward the half-open window.

A slight breeze enters just then,

causing the collection of empty glass bottles and mason jars on the sill

to sing as it passes over them,

the lips of which have long since felt

the softer touch of lips of a different kind.

They now stand old and forgotten

like the trees outside,

whose bare winter limbs sway like the arthritic fingers of antique people

who wait longingly to be looked at

one last time.

The breeze dies down,

but in its absence I notice the dust motes

dancing slowly in the slanting light of the setting sun.

They pass between my fingers

like tiny creatures of time gone by 

and memories long forgotten.

And suddenly the bags under my eyes feel heavier,

the shadows of dreams unrealized;

it’s been so long since I’ve dreamt.

My thoughts are scattered and fragmented

as they stumble through the mountains of my mind,

but with the disappearing sun

comes the exhaustion I’ve been searching for.

As I lie in the dark blue dusk of the forthcoming night

the record that’s been playing softly in the corner ends,

and finally sleep finds me in the quiet static.