Somnolent. In the soft descent of lids unto cheeks, in the body’s yielding to the hush of bone and breath, I reach for the arms of Morpheus as one reaches for a grave’s cool earth— not in despair, but in aching need. The night will not have me. It keeps me pacing like a restless tenant in a house lined with ghosts, each corridor echoing with old names, old loves that never learned how to die. Insomnia calls me out upon the moors, where grief roams feral and barefoot, crying H