447

4:47

4:48

4:49

The numbers change

whether I watch them or not,

but I watch anyway,

like watching them

means I'm doing something,

like bearing witness

to the passing of time

counts as sleep.

It doesn't.

My brain

is a machine

that turned on

five days ago

and won't shut down.

It's cataloguing things—

conversations I had,

conversations I didn't have,

the way my neighbor

looked at me,

the email I almost sent,

the thing I said

in 2008

that no one remembers

but me.

The bed is warm.

The room is dark.

Everything is perfect

for sleeping

except my body,

except my mind,

except the fact

that I stopped

believing

I could rest.

4:47 becomes

4:52.

I didn't notice

the minutes passing.

That's new.

That's worse.

When you can't sleep,

at least you're conscious

of your suffering.

When you can't even

keep track

of the time,

you're just

floating,

untethered,

waiting for a dawn

that feels

like it might never

come.

I don't call the doctor.

I don't take anything.

I just lie here

and let the numbers

change,

and let my brain

keep spinning,

and pretend

that tomorrow

I'll be tired enough

to stop.

Tomorrow won't come.

Not in the way I need it to.