2am.

The clock on the night stand mocks me. It's face angled to the empty space in my bed, the glowing green screams 'not again' I reach for a note pad. 2am
I scribble the words with such distain, my pencil melts to my hand.
What is insomnia?
If not an old friend-
who is the only person that still checks up on me

What is the Moon's role in this blank slate that is darkness and grief,
too high to...