I’m ashamed to admit
I dream of sleep—
the warmth of disappearing.

I want to fold myself into the silence,
to unclench my fists,
let the hours spill through my fingers.

The fan, or the world, hums low—
a distant rumor—
and I am nothing but breath
and the faint pulse of my wrists.

The warmth of disappearing,
into a bath of dreaming.