Sleep will not come,
not the usual variety.
Awake a fortnight,
fatigue drags me deeper
into a fog–
I like the fog.
Living in a cloud,
relaxing more as it thickens,
an opaque barrier, soft.

Woolgather,
no longer conscious:
magical;
floating away on weather
into the troposphere,
rising cold;
missing no one at all.

Mist on the undressed window:
condensation–
rain me down.
Not even the thunder wind,
nor flashing bolts
break the trance;
evaporation–
another fogbank.