04-13-2024, 10:30 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-13-2024, 10:39 AM by Quixilated.)
I always hated climbing into bed.
The sheets were cold, and the dark
was a prickly presence, lurking.
I would read into the wee hours,
read until the words were swimming,
sandpaper eyes burned with every blink.
Sleep was not a gentle falling into rest,
it was a feral biting thing to be captured,
coerced with its restless claws scrabbling.
Oh, but waking up was glorious.
The sheets were a warm cocoon,
safe and soft and full of dreams,
with the slow unfolding of awareness,
the scent of syrup and waffles wafting,
mom’s voice always singing, always cheery.
I would hover halfway between dreamland
and reality, clinging to that twilight of thought
as magic slowly gave way to the mundane.
The sheets were cold, and the dark
was a prickly presence, lurking.
I would read into the wee hours,
read until the words were swimming,
sandpaper eyes burned with every blink.
Sleep was not a gentle falling into rest,
it was a feral biting thing to be captured,
coerced with its restless claws scrabbling.
Oh, but waking up was glorious.
The sheets were a warm cocoon,
safe and soft and full of dreams,
with the slow unfolding of awareness,
the scent of syrup and waffles wafting,
mom’s voice always singing, always cheery.
I would hover halfway between dreamland
and reality, clinging to that twilight of thought
as magic slowly gave way to the mundane.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara