DREAM OF THE BUG

W/ each gulp the shivers rack my body. Convulsively my skin raises & thumps.
My wife hates it...each...single...fucking Gulp.
The problem, you see, is this: as each epochal night glides criminally across a field of a thousand weeping eyes, as if in prayer, she holds wilting flowers against my bare chest, that once did not belong to her, & claims the sincerity of their odorous hope.
W/ sticky reservation, my wife snoring softly beside me, i slip out of bed, unable to shake the Night's dream from my head, & traverse the length of our shotty apartment to a main window that looks out over 9nth street.
It is superbly quiet. The dark, calming & soothing. So much so that i am not even sure if i am awake. Dreams...& Reality are like that sometimes...it's maddening.
How many times have i stood in this very spot wondering about the novels of our lives? i think to myself. How many times, on eternal nights such as these, have i concluded that the end is always worse then chapter one? & how many times am i to go on w/ questions w/ no intention of seeking answers? All this racing thru my weakened brain, as i laugh, chuckle, boar into myself & pour a liquid gold river into a pathetic plastic cup.
i can sense, in the mollified air, a shift, a change, a darkening of light, but what? i question myself.
"goddammit," i say aloud, because such questions are nothing but a useless song, & return to bed, awaiting the arrival of mourning, which, i suppose, is already here.
"i am nothing like a bug," i say to her closed lids, & rest my head against pillow. & begin to dream.