I should not sleep so well
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So why do I?

The mind is
wont to wander
when it has little else to do
with itself
in long summer
days, skies devoid of distraction.

The rare sun
splitting the stones
in June, before return to rainy
routine. Days
unoccupied by life
quiet, uneventful as it should have been.

It thinks
back to that morning
in the dark, drowsy eyes and barely
active ears
unaware to the
silence that had befallen you.

And yet
with you gone
I find no difference to my own rest,
later rising
and later falling,
but not a moment away lost.

Perhaps I
am simply not as
distraught as I would like,
or, deep down,
I know you would have
wanted me to sleep easy without you.

Or maybe,
I am a monster.
Unaffected by the loss of one
so close to me,
so directly lost to me
in spite of my role in your resting.

Is this what
you would have wanted for me?
Unconsumed like the ones around me,
calm in a time
where I should be
anything but, yet find myself to not be.

Or do you
frown upon me, from
whatever high place you find yourself in,
wondering why I
fill my days with the
fiction I swore one day to show you.

Do you think,
to yourself and others,
that you knew I was never worth it,
all that effort,
all those years you dedicated to me,
unreturned in grief, weeks, months later.

Maybe you're right.
Maybe I never was worth it,
for all the times
you told me otherwise,
but we both knew it was never true.

I'm just eating myself
in place of losing sleep over it.
Self-destruction was always
so much easier than letting the tears
flow, it always felt better in spite of the cost.

Maybe I'm just losing something else in its place.

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