Contained in my cotton crib. Where I feel no turbulence. The ocean sleeps upon a shelf. And it feeds my apathy. . But I can feel it in the night. Like rain upon my skin inside a winter.
Underneath the shelf cracks appear in thick enamel. In this lapse, excuse for wasting time. I wait for signals, shooting stars. I'd scrape through every branch.
Across the night. It was the moon that stole my slumber. Across the night. I fell in love with people sleeping. And hugged a man's arthritic shoulder.
Breathe in the night. That crushed a tired sunrise. Born again the day. Brings young naivety. . A laptop souvenir is worth its weight. In silver a golden son.