you brush your teeth. change,
gratefully, into your bedclothes.
the dim light of your Kindle
illuminates the room.

next to you, he’s started snoring.
you read to the sound, intermittent
and infuriating, an hour passing
without any effort at all.

then your eyes begin to close,
and you place the book aside.
sleep. you’ll need it, up early,
for once at least – you hope.

but one day…

no. not now. quick, imagine
something. anything.
you’re Hermione Granger.
you went back in time.

but one day you’ll…

you’re one of the Vanir,
the Goddess of Thieves,
here to steal the tesseract
from Odin’s deepest vaults.

but one day you’ll die.

you can’t destroy a thought
except by replacing it, but
you can’t replace this one.
it consumes you.

one day you are going to die.

push it out. get rid of it –
you’ll have to if you want
any semblance of sleep.
but it won’t go. it won’t budge.

one day you are going to die.

you want to scream.
how do other people live
knowing this truth?
how does it not drown them?

one day you are going to die.

he’s still snoring whilst
you struggle with the nature
of everything in the world
that you cannot control.

one day you are going to die.

trapped by the knowledge
that the sleep you crave
is a mirror of the oblivion
you fear.

one day you are going to die.

you reach for the fantasies;
they will not be enough
to free you.

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