And Still Comes Dawn



For several nights in a roll now
he could not sleep well;
he would move from side to side of the bed for hours
but he would not fall asleep.

It was cold all right, but that was not it
and though he was not supposed to focus on that
there was a dog clearly barking in the distance
and at some point he heard the arrival of the garbage truck.

He shut his eyes closed and took a deep breath
but he could still hear his heart beating loudly.

The pictures she'd sent him came to his mind
and he held on to them hoping
that they could possibly prompt him to dream;
she was beautiful
but it was all very odd.

From over yonder came the sound of broken bottles
against the pavement of the street
and he thought that perhaps, just maybe,
he didn't even want it to be.

Almost delirious from lack of sleep
he felt his love was far too dry for that too,
like that girl from the story, Edna, had said:
it was supposed to be somehow endured, silently
and drive him close enough to madness
so he could touch it.

His love was bound to be torment.
yes, he thought, still lying there awake;
it was simply that kind of love.