Sleep is like an allusive state that my body instinctively reaches out for yet seems unable to grasp. So close you can almost touch it, but for now it remains out of reach. Plagued by this weariness, seconds seem like minutes, minutes like hours. The night is long.
I lay here willing sleep to wrap its arms around me and hold me tight, releasing me from its grip only at sun's first light. Why is sleep not my friend, its visits intermittent?
It beckons to me, toys with me, drawing me close yet remaining distant.
Listing to the sounds of a house at rest I lay, I wait, I wonder . . . . . will sleep be my friend tonight?