You lay your head
down,
pillows eager
to catch the descent.
A smooth and gentle
glide of the sheets.
The unwritten
contract of slumber,
slowly coming
to fruition.
On this side of
the latitudes,
My eyes are wide
and open.
Memorizing each
grain and paint stroke of a half-hearted ceiling.
Well-aware of
your state, it shifts me into a cycle.
I become a mere
slush of a former man, turned into gel.
And I roll side
to side, trying to restore a form.
The asleep-and-awake
state, this pinning love and hate,
and that
less-than-half-a-second moment…
always too late,
stops my heart for one day.
Until nighttime
visits here,
and I become
man once more.
For my nights
mean you are there haunting the house.
Chairs flipping,
doors creaking, coffee mugs shifting,
and you, in a
sleeping gown (or pajamas)
floating around
in a glowing circle.
I have no circles
of my own.
I want to be
your circle.
Glowing.
Jay Protacio
Mendoza
(1978 - )
