If I Go to Sleep

The west village is so quiet at 1:30 am on a Sunday. It sleeps, it waits. I keep my window open and listen to the wind. The clouds turn the night sky into a peach-colored blanket. There's a window across the courtyard where the lights are on. I wonder what they do for a living.

He wrote today to tell me he misses my body, but he is only talking at himself and it doesn't matter what I reply. They go to the bar still, and how I miss it, but that town seems endlessly far away now. It's hard to remember how it felt. It was never quiet at night. 

Things I have loved

I'm allowed

To keep. 

I keep you

close

as ever. 

Nobody needs to know.