We can’t still
be awake - sitting on the sofa
with the cushions, pushing,
into the backs of our knees
like blanket stitching weed or poison ivy.
There are pink marks, like pressure sores
from sleeping in. This is enforced sleeplessing,
the army would be proud - would shine
bright lights into our eyes, lightly thumb
the purple bags. But we don’t sleep.
Like vampires we just sit -
on sofa cushions, pushing
sleeping hours away unclaimed.
We write, like someone else might pay
for words we scratch onto our screens -
not just us.
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That’s beautiful.
thanks for commenting
Wrote it last night. My boyfriend and I are both writers and we came together for tea at about 3am last night - after scribbling away separately before. Not complaining though! So hard to write anything sometimes, so it’s good when it happens!
LX
That sounds like a wonderful thing - both you and your boyfriend being writers and 3am tea.
Writers rock :]