I don’t sleep at night,
not anymore.
Too much has occurred
for me to find peace
and rest.
Too many have fought and died
and died
for me to have this blanket,
this pillow.

I stare at the ceiling,
my personal distress feeling like ants
compared to the wasps others deal with.
I think of you
and you,
and I wonder if you sleep soundly.
It would be like you, and perhaps you,
to do so.

But the aching in my chest
aligns with the one in yours.
We are witnesses
without mouths to scream.

I see the abyss.
It’s dark, but warm,
the stench unclear.

If you, or you wanted to,
we could link arms
plug our noses,
and plunge into the belly,
letting the unknown consume us.