Ode to insomnia

It's not as it used to be:
the world's the same
the same alphabet and familiar words
occasional reasons to smile to myself
many reasons to laugh
in the predetermination
scripted surreptitiously
in mind maps and diurnal routes;
the clouds pattern differently
but it's still all cloud
I wait for rain
like I've waited for sun;
but it's not like it used to be
between us
the gives and takes
of everyday and every night
when we took universe in palm
let slip through fingers
every grain of hurt
and kiss love dust remnant
and softly imprint cheek and forehead
in the soft marking of comforts;
it's not like it used to be
with she so far away
and I lost in orbits
of choice and circumstance;
it's not like it used to be
between us,
but she texts
from a stolen phone,
'good night'
and I just can't sleep.

A long-night short story

Something brushed the surface
of a gin and tonic moment
something sank into liquid sorrow
in the retelling of retold stories
something cut through night
in the imagined stillness of the dark
something waited for expected word
in the thrill of vacancies that fill
something about hours and nights
wrote a story that will not be forgotten.

It was a story of all-this-time
of suffocating love
the mines of ownership
it was a story of a river
and a friend
one still and the other not
it was a story of a waning moon
a first-time observation
of light overpowered by darkness
and the terror of Amavaka.