It's still there: the slumberless aroma
nestling its way through my corked nostrils and
scheming to steady matchsticks under my
open-eyed lids - exiling any impatience for
meditation to my fidgeting limbs. The narcotic
night's lights scatter through the window
in a paraffin coating, and lend a slyly alluring
odour to the blond-laced perfume still
under your bereft pillow; weaving through the
satin strands and frigid feathers.
Restlessly, I'll count the
evasive forty winks (insolently
playing on the brink of my vision) with
ongoing cravings to feel your
settling hands explore my
exposed, beseeching body.
Adimurti Community Member 
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