When it’s nearing midnight and the air is still,

The incandescent bulbs above my bed burning too yellow,

Face and teeth waiting to bask in the sting of sterile frost.

Limbs getting heavier, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress

Forgetting the state of limbo between do-it-now and do-it-later

Eyelids fluttering close because they insist on ‘just quickly resting’.

On any other night, sleep wouldn’t fit into the schedule

But because the pile of work on the desk remains untouched,

Tonight – and every night that mimics this – procrastination will be my lullaby.

Written September 17, 11:36 PM

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