xxxviii

“Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.”

-Fran Lebowitz

            Tonight is the last time that I will sleep in my Ralph Lauren sheet bed, the last time that I will sleep under the watchful eyes of sticky-tacked pictures and the half-stapled Megatron poster, for more than a month, two months, a semester.

            But, for some reason, I can’t sleep.

            My two brothers insisted on dragging the two family sleeping bags onto the thrice-vacuumed floor of my bedroom and they are already asleep, contently escaping the mostly-blackness of my walls with the breaths of the dog next to them and the analog ticks of the maroon clock, crookedly mounted on my wall singing them to sleep.

Midnight Symphony

It’s weird but

I’m pretty sure that when I fall asleep for the night,

my house doesn’t.

The groans of my brother’s four-toothed fan crawl down my hall.

I’ve heard it.

And the screaming dust dances in my nostrils and under my eyes.

I’ve felt them.

Even the bedsprings complain to each other, thinking I can’t understand.

But I can.

And so tonight I’ll leave my light on, so the rays can trace bags under dusty eyes.

And I’ll conduct my midnight symphony.

            Tonight is the last time that I will sleep in my Ralph Lauren sheet bed for one month, two months, a semester, the last time that I will lead the sleeping bag, dog-breath orchestra in one final chorus.