Poetry

Insomnia

by

Meredith Jones

His mind is a kaleidoscope.
Right before he falls asleep
he tells me-
there are no such things as good things,
just different things.
He fingers the knotted flaw
on the sleeve of my cotton shirt
that i hadn't noticed
and acts as if his words
are normal.
And then his brow furrows
and he ponders
with his head on the pillow
the evolutionary benefit
behind tail bones in humans
and hollow nerve cords to the brain.
And now i act interested.
And now i can't shut my eyes.
And now i live in a city called self doubt
where i peep through the blinds
and watch the street lights
flicker and stop.
Flicker and stop.
He sleeps right on through.
But i just wait and wonder
till morning,
till he moans and rolls over
and i'm still up with a beaten brain,
a mushy mind,
and no answer,
hoping this good thing of mine
doesn't end,
hoping i'm evolved enough
to avoid becoming just
another one of his
vestigial remains.