The nights

The nights do not pass. You adjust your body so that with each blink and snooze nothing has changed. The air feels cooler on your skin. Your feet disappear for just a moment before consuming you with their feeling of tearing, scalding, and needles. The street lights are still. The sconces are unflinching. The shadows of dead bugs show. The same dead bugs. Close your eyes. There is no moon to trace your shadow from side to side, only the rise and fall of the tepid displaced water trickling into your nose as your abdomen expands with breath after breath. You find yourself awakening in the same state, empty places, rooms and halls that are too large, bits of flat sky visible and the urge to walk quickly to the next incompatible plaster casket to sleep. Something has happened here. You deny. Your feet are alive. Something has happened in each, under the layers of paint. You sleep outside in the oceanic balm. The city is on the verge of sinking.