January 29

Sleep used to be this heavy pillow, this deep
mattress, this thick blanket that buried safeness
inside it, like a dog’s hair to a flee. I’d slide

under covers and feel free, fur
soothing me. But now the very thing
which held me, lies uneasy, a niche
where you can’t bury a prayer.

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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