Half Asleep

The motel room is warm-

it smells vaguely of cigarettes

but that's become comforting.

You've been restless, twitchy

like a cat listening to the railroad.

The sound of the TV

is fuzzy at best- fading

in and out of focus.

My pyre is made of flesh 

and bones

but stripped raw of the 

things that 

I call home.

I often wake up in the night-

heart beating off into

streetlights

and circling parked cars, searching-

but the mirage of suffering is soft.

I rarely make any noise of it.