I toss about like flotsam on the sea
and flail my arms like first-alighted birds
a lone tear of frustration escapes me,
runs down my cheek. I taste internal words.
I turn to face the wall and count the lines
as some count sheep, to lethargy induce.
I sip on herbal tea, a glass of wine,
i read a book of remedies profuse,
assume the pose of children in the womb.
Closer to my objective I draw not.
Incline, supine, new temperature of room
has no effect, so I accept my lot:
Despite what I ingest, contort, or weep,
without you near, I cannot fall sleep.
