Insomnia
Reading by an aged incandecent light, I hear you whisper the words to me. I can feel you close by. Just knowing it's your favorite book thrills me into reading more fervently. Near candlelight illuminates the page to a steady glow and the night begins to play tricks on my eyes.
I see figures instead of letters, and the words seem to dance off the page, throwing themselves into a fiery dance. Knowing better than to torture myself with vain attempts, I close the book.
I move my hand slowly and turn the knob of the lamp. The light dims and I lie back in my soft bed and, feeling the layers on top, I wait to feel warm. Somehow, there's something missing.
I can still feel your touch.
But dreaming about you always warms me in the morning.
I see figures instead of letters, and the words seem to dance off the page, throwing themselves into a fiery dance. Knowing better than to torture myself with vain attempts, I close the book.
I move my hand slowly and turn the knob of the lamp. The light dims and I lie back in my soft bed and, feeling the layers on top, I wait to feel warm. Somehow, there's something missing.
I can still feel your touch.
But dreaming about you always warms me in the morning.