Blind eyes could blaze like meteors

When I know I will not sleep, I spread
my hair all over the pillow
like a crown
or a flower field.

Slowly, I think insistently
and with strict assiduous order
in all the things that make me feel horrible
and that make me cry.

When the time comes,
I put my fingers on the lashes,
fondly
I recognize the sticky feel,
I think
how wonderful it may would be
if I could not open my eyes tomorrow.

Walk in darkness, ignore
if you feel sad for what I did,
take a break from you
and from the world.

And when I finally fall asleep,
it always happens
that I confuse
—are they not the same?—
the sweetness of weariness
with the sweetness of death.

A poem from Your Suprasternal Notch