L can no longer sleep because I am the spike which rises through her bed and turns agonisingly in her.
L can no longer sleep because to sever our rainbow for a few hours leaves her a speechless, capsized addict.
L can no longer sleep because even the drowsy, punch-drunk tiredness that shuts off consciousness cannot nullify her.
L can no longer sleep because I feel guilty that she can no longer sleep; even though she counts the molecules of my guilt individually.
L can no longer sleep, even when I invite her to crawl underneath the blanket of my skin and close her eyes.
L can no longer sleep because there isn't an astringent severe enough to stifle the wound left when my body is ripped away from hers, and she bleeds to death, awake.
L can no longer sleep because her bed is a coffin, and the weight of my body is akin to the earth pushing eternally down on her.
