head rush at 2:45 a.m.

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asking what composes
the music of my post-midnight madness has been
the past week and a half
is akin to attempting to play a trumpet
underwater

i suppose
it’s all the times that i should’ve listened
to my fears in the past
walking back and gripping my shoulders
like relatives who’ve traveled many miles

the blood is sensitive
singing underneath my skin
like altos in Sunday choirs with no fans
and you wonder where sleep is to be found
as minutes drag the sunrise from its bed

asking what anxiety
comes before one sleeps
is to shine a mirror into the corners of your spirit
untouched
hoping that you can meet the gaze

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