i think there's someone living under my eyelids,
drawing red scratches inside with long nails,
a fractious friend and a delusion-linked stranger,
of those night encounters that just spite your armors.

and these red scratches,
they're the needles that stumble in my steps
and dishevel my gestures.
and i'm forgotten dismantled in darkened corridors
while they loosely drag my body
through hours, days and weeks.

and so shapes forget their purpose
and syllables crumble heavily around me
while i lurk ghostly through damp photographs,
wearing my eyes half-open,
languid and unarmored,
never fully able to grasp the sharp lines of reality
nor the dainty curves of sleep,
always incoherent, weary, awaiting,
numbering each and each step and clock beat
or staring blankly at my wet traces on the bathroom floor.

and i may just seethe and strive
to evict this uninvited guest,
but i know about his disquieted nights
and his very own drops of agony that he drinks,
for i've met him once or twice,
skating in circles on the very same thin ice,
unsettled by the strain of his own heavy eyelids,
scratched by other long fingers,
tired, sore and frantic
in their very own
troubled sleep.