Insomnia's Footprint

The smell of decay fills my nostrils like the flesh of an old woman.

I grow too afraid for words, for the moons of time
that shadow the curves of our bodies.

I once thought we fit together like a jigsaw:
your arms to my shoulder, my head to your thighs -
and I hated myself for those cliches.

Now I hide in their shade,
leaving whispered phrases
unvocalized, silent as the wind,
forgotten like the stars in a city evening,
where shit-filled snow is reflected
off the lights of skyscrapers.