Slow, creeping pain
won't admit it to yourself, though.
You give it all the poetic imagery it deserves.
Dark gathering clouds
Unmailed letters
apologize
beg
Candles lit in attic windows at midnight
And you can't sleep, not ever
Because that part of you,
that revealed everything in the first place
is an insomniac
and has pitched a tent
with poles beneath your eyelids.
