(poem from april/may '07)

I wake up to the small sounds my roommate makes
early morning, when it is still half dark.
Maybe I flex my hands and toes,
grope underneath my pillow
for my cell phone, to check the time.
With hours left to sleep, I curl into the warm blankets,
the layers vaguely damp with sweat from dreams
or the window blowing shut.

But I never sleep.
only doze for scarce moments,
my mind briefly slipping into
a world that does not exist,
where a boy might hold my body and
whisper about the perfection of my hips,
kiss one and then the other,
these bony, pale protrusions.

Someone told me I have the dreams of a narcissist,
but I can’t remember looking into a pool
one soft, spring day,
and vowing to love myself eternally.
So I lie in my gentle wakefulness,
coaxing myself into movements,
but even rising to sit takes coercing or bribery,
and looking across my desert bedroom,
I cannot force myself to cross
or leave the warmth of my sheets.
I lie back again, eyes closed but sleepless.

It is not so beautiful
to dream of his features each night.