The nights;

Every spring in your mattress stabs into you like knives.

The nights;

Your brain is a bee hive of thoughts.
The nights;

The moon shines slightly too bright through your window.

These are the nights,

Sleep doesn't come knocking at your door.
These are the nights,

He waits for an invitation to the party;

That never comes.

He sees your 3am thoughts

Posted on your news feed,

And wishes he was there;
But he isn't.
He sits patiently,

Waiting for that invitation;
Night, after night.

One day,

He gets so frustrated,

He forgets to knock,

And comes barging in.
But when he comes,

You are never there.
So he leaves,

As quick as he came,
And wonders why he bothered.

But you remain,

Wide eyed;
Staring at the ceiling;
Waiting.

Every sound;

Like a gunshot,

Awakening you from that little visit you get from sleep.

And you are back to reality;
Feeling every spring as it stabs you;
Your brain pounding with too many bees for this bee hive;
Awake.

These are the nights,

You miss him the most.

Your insides go hollow,

And your head becomes a spinning top.
Making you unable to see straight;
Drunk.

What have you done to deserve this?
Sleep is his best friend;
The best friend he stole from you. 
Sleep longs to be back by your side....
But not him. 
He appears in your night mares and your poetry,
But never at your door.

So you remain sleepless,

And empty;
Waiting....
Waiting for a moment that will never happen.
Awake.