I Can't Leave

I'm not restless, it's not a kink, not to be the

self, happening things upon me.

But I am excited by night,

for all the things by sleep.

Not rest, or the wide ephemera,

to be shaken loose over toast,

but for the things that have happened,

five hours ahead, or behind,

the morning when a cushion plumped

might restore a sense of space,

or when the news seems weird

and its pigeon bones are the meal,

my day becomes what's made of them.

We hope to age, we hope to think 

of the slight adjustments we make in series,

as the true scope of the intent to age

and I can't wait to sleep,

to wake and think of what I must yield to,

for the next age, then the age after that.

My skill set's stuck

and there's an old way brewing,

I can't wait to transcend news.

I'm clapped out forever.

I like the canteen space,

I like letters, falling,

I like to peel off the others

I'm not rested, it's not a kink,

so long as I'm tired,

I can't leave,

I can't wait.