Sleep

When thoughts go to sleep, when you sit out in the world and think of sleeping, of your dark room, the silence, the warm comfort of soft cloth and the heat generated by your own body trapped against your skin, it makes the outside world a haze, a fuzzy feeling of detachment like you’ve been dipped into brownish tea and float across what you should be seeing and hearing but can’t quite make out, in the sense that your legs carry you home, to your room, to your bed, and you taste nothing sweet or bitter, but you imagine the sound of the back of your hand sliding across cotton thread and you lay down your head with your cheek nestled into an impression on your pillow, sweeping your hair out of your face so you can breathe clear and deep, and you sleep, you just sleep.