Some nights, I chase sleep like a lover I lost in another life—
soft-footed, breath held,
hoping it won’t see me coming.

But when it does,
it drags its nails down my mind
and calls it comfort.

The bed folds like a secret,
creases shaped like prayers.
The dark speaks in familiar voices
I stopped answering years ago.

Dreams come dressed as paper airplanes—
delicate, floating,
until they unfold midair
into claws,
into questions I never asked out loud.

I turn the pillow to its cooler side,
pretend it’s a fresh start.
But the ceiling keeps whispering names
I’ve buried in daylight.

Still,
somewhere between REM and retreat,
the moon peeks through the blinds
like she hasn’t given up on me yet.

And I remember—
there is mercy in waking.
There is beauty in breathing.
Even the night, with all its teeth,
lets go
when morning arrives
quiet and whole.