Sleep

Perhaps my drowsiness smells of heat in the dry grass. I sink my hands into the summer stalks and tempt bugs to wander up my arms. Lying on my back, I shut my eyes as warm drops of sunlight drench my upturned face. Sleep is falling steadily. I could go out and gather it in my hands. My hands would know what to do. I could leave my life. I could change completely. Is it time?

Maybe everything I love is made of it. It is beauty. It is mystery. It has a blonde smell. I bury my red-hot face in the pillow of it knowing the lullaby of its company doesn’t anchor me anymore. Light, air and leaves are moving in its breeze. There is a sweet taste in my mouth, which makes my teeth feel unfamiliar – the taste of when I was small and lay in bed, not wanting to sleep, not wanting to be alone.