They curl like commas
in the sentence of a day,
already drifting
before the thought
of sleep occurrs.
No ritual.
No bargaining.
Just the gravity of surrender.
I watch
as they slip
between this world and next
with the ease of a thief
who knows braille.
I want that kind of faith.
That clean exit
from the noise,
without checking locks
or guessing tomorrows.
But I stay up,
counting wounds in ceiling paint,
composing treaties with yesterday,
while they
chase silent rabbits
on smooth ice
at the edge of waking.
