In the middle of the night, when the air smells like stars and the galaxy consumes consciousness, I become an insomniac.
I study my ceiling. I study the doors. Shut. Locked. I am devoured.
By lust, by pain, by hope.
Emotionally confined within two chambers. The heart. A tiny, fluorescent drum that cowers to rhythm.
Fluttering eyelashes swell like the velvet fingertips of a butterfly’s wings. Crushed underneath the pressure of beauty, burned by scrutiny.
A man is dying in the distance, and no one will ever know.
Tear tracks follow tire tracks. A road of remorse and flat tires. Exploitation resides beneath the grittiest nail.
Stoic. Unmoving. Solitary.
The world is outside my window, but it is intangible. My breath creates an impenetrable fog. I am my own obstacle to greatness.
I am awake.
But, yet, I am that man.
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