Where the Restless Hours Roam

Sleepless Nights

The night folds in around me, a curtain soft and thin, yet every time I close my eyes, the thoughts come rushing in. They tap against my ribcage, they rattle through my chest, they whisper, “Are you waking?” when all I want is rest.

The moon hangs like a watchman outside my window frame, its silver light a quiet judge that knows me by my name. I toss beneath the blankets, I turn the pillow twice, as if a cooler corner might coax my mind to nice.

But no, my thoughts keep pacing, a restless midnight crew, they open doors I bolted shut, they wander someplace new. They sift through old reminders, they hum forgotten tunes, they stir up ghosts of yesterdays that drift beneath the moon.

The hours stretch like shadows, too long, too thin, too wide, and every time I breathe them in, they settle at my side. A car hums down the quiet street, a lonely passing light, and I imagine following it straight out of this long night.

Yet morning always finds me, no matter how I try, it pulls me from the tangled dark and lifts me to the sky. I rise, a little hollow, a little frayed and worn, a half‑awake survivor of another sleepless morn.

Still, something in the daylight reminds me I’m okay, that even nights that steal my rest can’t steal the coming day. And though the dark is stubborn, and though the hours creep, I know that someday soon again, I’ll fall into soft sleep.