Insomnia

There is a little light. I see shades of grey. And black. Silhouette of the drapes, staged the vinyl of the trove of a multitude of myself. How long has it been - two, or three? I was counting, on my knee which I've brought close to my chin. I always curl when I sleep. My breathing is amplified because my ear is pressed against a companion. Vague and distant, a metallic drip which seemingly follows the rhythm of the sound that proves the warmth in my blood. The night is still and not one I'd want to have. Heavy, yet weighing nothing. Empty, but filled. The unnoticed reflection of a part of the road's only vehicle etched as quickly as it flitted from the door. And maybe just in that instant, I realised I haven't lost myself. I miss me.