• A peculiar mist rolls
    through the widowed weeds ,
    my sleepless eyes lie heavy above
    a twisted mouth.

    Twisted like the covers,
    pillows,
    where you lay not a moment
    before,
    twenty minutes or so.
    I suppose.

    Stretched too thin
    my eyes are heavy
    tired.
    Without prospect of rest,

    Strike of twelve,
    I know you are there
    but i cant see you
    not now.
    By day there are many.
    At night I am one