For Those Who Don’t Sleep at Night
There are things
that only reveal themselves
after midnight
like the faint scent of copper
in a memory,
or how grief,
when left undisturbed,
oxidises into silence.
Some nights
I don’t lie awake.
I conduct stillness
like mercury holds shape
without spilling,
like iron remembers
every hand that held it
too tightly.
This is not insomnia.
This is alchemy.
The nervous system
releasing its old alloys.
A quiet forge
where I become
less brittle,
more elemental.
I’ve stopped trying
to be daytime people
the kind who gleam
like polished silver.
I am rust,
I am residue,
I am what remains
when the fire goes out
but the warmth stays.
Don’t ask me
why I’m still up.
Ask instead
what it means
to carry questions
like carbon
invisible,
essential,
burning slow.
If you’re awake,
you are not alone.
There are others like us
upstream of sleep,
where gold is still soft,
and the night
doesn’t ask for answers.
Only presence.
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