The shadows dance and scream as
black ink dribbles down bruised skies
while the maroon sunset lures
me into a game of tag.
Sundown is an old friend who
is amused when I complain
about clockwork routine and
how my day’s been as long as
winter nights in the North Pole.

This train is louder than the
bird calls which drown out voices,
pulsating through synapses,
ticking with the minute hand,
till winds chase the clouds away.
If I hold my breath without
counting the seconds, I hear
the earth spinning and my mind
racing at the same speed, so
in sync that it seems like my
thoughts aren’t moving at all.

Relatively, dawn is a
stranger I’ve watched through heavy
lids and with apple cider
yesterday still on my lips.
As the purple light slants in
through the stained grey window pane,
the cavity in my chest
has never felt more hollow.
A gecko calls. I should sleep.