Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. I fight the desire

to run down the hall, hammer in hand, to

smash the faucet in pieces. I tire

of the incessant, dripping thoughts of you

in my mind and I pray for sleep to come.

Another wide-eyed three a.m., I see

the second hand, not in time with the drum

of the water; it moves on, why not me?

I understand "We" wouldn't work, I know

it's not meant to be, but something inside

just won't quit. My heart holds hostage my whole

being, and dictates my life while senses hide.

Drip. Drip. The sound of water disappears,

Not hushed by Savior Sleep - blended with tears.