Sleepless Nights

Normally I'm afraid of the dark, Thinking that it's invisible arms are going to reach out and pry at my toes, or that my shadow's eyes are going to stare intensely at me as I lay innocently on my opposite side, As I calmly attempt to close my eyes, say my prayers, and dream. My night light mocks me by repeating unpattered rhythms of silent visible heartbeats. Each mouse-like sound that has the accidental frequency to squeak just a little too loud shudders my entire body, my ears like dialing telephones. I wish anxiously for even a drip of water, to feel a single drop trickle like a mourning tear down the back of my sore throat. I've seen few horror movies enough to know that it's these times when deciding on movement is crucial, unless I have the sudden desire to be in critical condition. Windows and mirrors, designed to provide light and sight, are to be avoided when I wish to see the dawn again and to avoid giving any of karma's haunted spirit to stare into my soul when I only awake to wash my face from the eerie feeling that someone is watching me. The fact that I can't fight this emotion must be proof of its presence. So if I can't fight, I must defend my dreams. To tuck my tiny, fragile toes under the turquoise quilt, To shut and lock my eyes like doors to keep out any unwanted visitors, and to open them to worlds I can only hope to visit, To change that rude bulb that is constantly begging for attention, To hear the serene tide wash, bubble, wash, bubble on the gossiping sand, And tasting the water splashing back against me. Picturing him walk in front of me, skipping the first rock, Tapping across the waves, replacing the relentless erroneous claps of the dying air conditioner. The sun is so bright, it shines in his now sparkling eyes, which forces me to decide on the elaborate color again, Before dusk sets in, but the sun rises.