Cara Peterhansel Insomnia

the moon

mocks me with its

window-slat stretchmarks,

stained with yellow,

spilling on my chest


you’re asleep already

but for me there’s just

the fleshy eyelid-dampened

light and the covers at our feet


I kissed you, pressed

your hands into my hips,

thinking sex might

leave me panting,

weighted,

like it did with her


but I can still feel

every egg-crate

indent of our mattress,

every serger stitch

beneath the fitted sheet


your breath-mist is too

warm on my shoulders,

your sleep-sounds grate

against the sheets

while I stare at the

popcorn-ceiling,

grey, like the

shirt she wore,

that I unbuttoned,

matte like her seaglass

voice, unzipped and

dryly whispering my name


tonight

while you sleep without me

I will slowly churn

and eat away the hours,

thinking of her.


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