JF: Heavy Eyes, Insomnia

Goodnight you latch-key kids.
Your parents are on their way home, but they will be drunk so stay up past your bed time and watch the all shows they told you not to. Tonight, you are the master of your own universe, but make sure you are in bed by the time they come stumbling home.

Goodnight you beautiful girls.
Rest knowing that little in this world comes granted and it all ain’t pretty; but those bullfrogs, they’re singing for you and it’s nothing beautiful, no, but it’s all they got to give, so take it and love it for that. Somewhere, in a different bed, a boy’s mind plays with the thought of you before his dreams surface and he is pulled beneath.

Goodnight you nervous palms, you rumbling jaw bones.
In time, the ink spots will leave you and the words will let you sleep again. Your gift is a burden, I know this. But you take turns carrying each other.

Goodnight to you half-empty-bed sleepers.
Remember that love is statue made of sawdust and, while a breath can reduce it to powder, the remains can be used to polish diamonds.

Goodnight you ancient souls.
Remember that believing in love is not a character flaw. It can make you stronger if you learn how to collect your bones after. Be the tide: recede when the moon calls you back.

Goodnight you seven day work weeks, uninterrupted hair-pulling duress.
I know that what you are is highways, reaching out for miles in all directions at once and it hurts to be spread so thin. Rest assured that you reach out in the direction of progress. One day, your knees will forgive you and they’ll carry you down a road to somewhere the temperature outside matches your soul and you will feel the tension drift out of your fingertips and into the horizon. Hold that close.

Goodnight you self-emptying pill cases.
Bundles of side effects matched by symptoms to an orange bottle tied like an anvil to your wrist. I know that you were not mistakenly made this way. Perfect is a word people coined to describe a concept we only attribute to the sky and God, he doesn't deal in perfect, that’s your job. You are loved because of what you carry inside you, not for what you swallow to fix it.

Goodnight you kite-flying wide-open eyes.
I know there is so much in the world just leaping out to be touched seen heard smelled believed laughed at examined held and thrown back around but it will still be there in the morning. Bide your time, the end of the string is tied to your finger.

May your dreams be sweet like caramel whipped cherry coated sugar truffle pops, blissful like “I love you and I mean it” and comforting like the soft prick of a grandmother’s kiss; so real you’ll want to touch it but can’t. You too stretch for miles.

And here am I, wishing my eyes were deeper; wishing there was something heavy in them because sharks like me, we don’t sleep. Comfort is not our territory. We circle dreams postured for attack, baiting our prey until the sun frightens them away and we are left to swim, to drift, half-conscious, hungry for sleep and thin from the pursuit.

So take this:
sleep soft,
stay warm,
drift gentle.

I’ll do the swimming.