TOSSING AND TURNING
TOSSING AND TURNING
Slipping into sleep, teetering on the frayed edge of my bed,
my cheek pressed deep into the cool, shadowed hollow of my pillow,
as the pale glow of dawn seeps through heavy curtains, well past midnight’s hush. Jolted awake, in scattered bursts, by the sharp, relentless wail of my cell phone,
rattling atop the chaotic jumble of books and trinkets I call a bedside table.
Its piercing ring cuts through the silence, proclaiming it’s you—
your voice crackling across the miles, a fragile thread in the morning’s haze. But I’m not swayed, not seduced by honeyed whispers or fleeting charm,
unfooled by the notion that this is more than a fleeting spark;
words are but fleeting embers, glowing bright yet meaning less than they vow.
If sentences could weave true sorcery, if their cadence held honest magic,
you’d be here, your presence filling the stark, empty stretch of this queen-sized bed,
banishing the cold void where shadows linger in your absence.
my cheek pressed deep into the cool, shadowed hollow of my pillow,
as the pale glow of dawn seeps through heavy curtains, well past midnight’s hush. Jolted awake, in scattered bursts, by the sharp, relentless wail of my cell phone,
rattling atop the chaotic jumble of books and trinkets I call a bedside table.
Its piercing ring cuts through the silence, proclaiming it’s you—
your voice crackling across the miles, a fragile thread in the morning’s haze. But I’m not swayed, not seduced by honeyed whispers or fleeting charm,
unfooled by the notion that this is more than a fleeting spark;
words are but fleeting embers, glowing bright yet meaning less than they vow.
If sentences could weave true sorcery, if their cadence held honest magic,
you’d be here, your presence filling the stark, empty stretch of this queen-sized bed,
banishing the cold void where shadows linger in your absence.
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