Sleep, by Simon Cleary

 There is grey orange darkness in the room,
and a warmth shifting in the air.
Solar breezes within the duvet
and caressing sense memory
in the muscles,
tensing and relaxing,
stretching.

Yet I can’t, or shouldn’t sleep just yet.
I should get up and think.
Maybe smoke a cigarette.

He gets up, drifts from beneath the covers and feels instinctively for the door handle, turns it gently to avoid the click sound, doesn’t want to disturb the neighbours above in these early hours.

No, don’t think,
anything but that – just feel.
Maybe read.

I move through to the kitchen and go to the drawer,
the rollers make a gentle grind as it opens.
I find the tobacco and roll a cigarette,
the paper slides dryly and the brown strands murmur.
My tongue licks.

He sits down on the sofa, tucks naked legs in beneath him, toes padding down on the fleece that covers the white canvas. The flame from the match ignites with a crack and hiss.

Yes, this is right.
This is quiet.
It is almost totally silent, but not quite.

I take a book and drift my eyes over the words,
but I only see a face, crinkled by smile,
eyes encompassing, wide and open.
She can see me.
A pretentious ex-wreckhead, dread, alive.
Not yet dead.

A summary to sum me: I add up to what I can say.

The light level is so low he can hear the bulb burn, the dimmer switch hum, the boards creak and the fire glow extinguish.

That was one of the best times in a long time.
She likes me, compliments me,
makes me feel like me.

The silence here feels like it glows,
and silence with her is just as warm and comfortable.
She knows me, I don’t have to explain.
She is happy, I can feel that.
Boards creak.
I don’t have to try to seek her happiness, it just flows between us.
Pipes ping.

Sometimes, I get shocked by little blue bolts of electricity.

He smiles and says something, quietly, to himself, to her, to the world, and to the Lord.

I see she has left the newspapers for me,
below a copy of Wide Saragasso Sea
I bought for 50p at the Abbey Theatre earlier.

We do things, we do something, to each other.
There’s no easy way out.
These words inside… I taste scents of past memories that painted a longed-for future… I’ve serenity… because I can give something to her… I should be writing this down. Maybe I will… No, it's fine.

It's too deeply etched in my mind.

Sleep.