poetry for the poetic: 5

CXXXIII

<insomniac's diary: watching>

i don't wanna be the dead girl anymore, washed up on the riverbank. i have this terrible thirst for contentment. his hand slides under my shirt and i sit up, amazed. he says he believes in god now.. i ask him to pray that i'll wake up with no memory of my grief.

i watch him, taking brief glimpses at his sleepy eyelids. after a while, mom calls me for dinner but i can't move! i will not move from his bed. i want to be his wife someday. it's all i've wanted since he held me under the stars & wished for me to live a happy life.

he has lived by himself for the first eighteen years of his life. no one to comfort his miseries besides himself. after all, divorced parents are only emotionally available part-time, right? he was, and still is, a child of philosophy, logic, and reason. laughing at his own jokes and staring at the ceiling fan and capturing the spiders rather than killing them.