STAGNANT

Slave labor to be done
Open books and open pages
Sticky notes and ink stains
Bed covers tilted 

Humans in their words to
Unravel 
Meanings and sun burns
Hot in anticipation

Debussy by my side to 
Help me sleep
Injecting calm 

Dreams of city houses
Pink covering white
Families I do not belong in
Physical contact inching away 
Schoolmates in a daze

Waking to the sound of typing
Picnic blanket pillows
Eating off of my slumber
Closed books and closed pages
Dirty skin and broken wine glasses  

Debussy's piano fingers 
Finger through my brain 
Lightly, softly
Tranquil acceptance of Melatonin

Instamatic insomnia panoramas 
On my bloody sheets
Where my love had been 
And now removed 
A doctor standing over me

I situate what is left in the mess
Of crumbled papers and jet-black
I lock onto the photographs 
Taking their once prominent emotions
Back 

Selfish intrigues with past relations
I am no part of their disguise 
Hiding my life from me 
No one suspecting I am wise to their
Fallacies 
They talk behind and before me
Sit and stir their coffees 

Stir me while you are 
At it
I have become quite stagnant
Resting here with the memory 
Of you