each raised pore is a spirit's home
there are many living in my face
when i can't sleep
i know spirits are gathered over me.
they vie for my patient ears to hear
their stories too melancholy for the daylight,
my skin picks them up
from the places i've travelled
and refuses to put them down.
my eyes have always been dull,
each fidget with the pillows
or shift to the other side,
they hold their calloused tongues. i cry for them
in the same way i would cry for myself.
i envy them -- but only in the superficial ways i'm supposed to
not because they are like me,
wanting to share a story but with no one to listen--
being elegantly free
in the same space with me
as if i was the Free
they are trying to escape to.