Awake

I am awake. My chest is a quick running clock, an empty rattling train carriage. It’s 2.45 in the morning, and I’ve been awake for some time. The blue-white street lamp through the window shines mistily through the window. Everything but my chest is stopped, blue-white frozen, asleep waiting for Larkin’s rise of barking phones and barking dogs.

I have slipped out of time and can only thresh in my bed waiting for it to notice and take me back up. A headache pins me to my pillow, but my legs and feet want to move. If they could divorce my head and the rest of my body they would slide away, slither under doorframes and swim outside in the blue-white moonlight. 

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