Feeling sleepy.
Yet not sleeping.
Going upstairs,
Pretending I want to read
Something.
Opening a novel,
A fat one.
But not reading.
Not reading.
Staring
Keeping a phone between the pages
At the middle of the book,
So they'll think
I'd read so much.
What a nerd.
Reading
Dante,
Shakespeare,
Freud,
With a phone inside,
At midnight,
After everyone has slept.
Still I feel someone's watching;
Someone
Climbing up the steps
Someone
Watching through the keyhole,
Watching through the gap under the door.
Someone
Calling my name.
They are only
The sounds of the night,
Mildly warm,
With crying cicadas,
Howling dogs.
But I hear my name
In the cicada's cry,
In the dog's howl.
Having no inner peace.
Yet I repeat this
Every night
Mercilessly.
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